


Psychobabble

by rageprufrock



Category: Smallville
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:16:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rageprufrock/pseuds/rageprufrock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only amateur psychology is fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Psychobabble

"The Hatfield-Berscheid experiments were not," she said matter-of-factly, "revolutionary  
in any way, shape, or form."

  
Clark scowled. He didn't see what was so bad about True Love (or the delusion thereof),  
anyway. True Love had gotten his parents years of happy marriage; lack of it resulted in  
the horrifying farce that had been Lex and Desiree's relationship.

  
On one intellectual level or another, Clark _knew_ that taking AP Psychology with a full  
load of other classes already was a bad idea. But having Principal Reynolds remind him  
constantly about his lack of attractive assets for colleges was starting to make an  
uncomfortable amount of sense, and Clark figured that he might as well. Besides, he had  
always thought that Psychology was an interesting field of study.

  
Clark was staring to learn that _amateur_ Psychology was interesting.

  
Learning about myelin sheaths, absolute thresholds, biological reasons for behavior, and  
memorizing obscure theory that was completely debunked, Clark reflected, was for the  
birds.

  
Birds with terrible karma. In fact, Lionel Luthor if he was ever reincarnated as a bird.

  
Dr. Polanski had this really sick fascination with destroying cherished beliefs in high  
schoolers. She's started off the class by saying simply that there was no such thing as  
true and forever love, and amidst the quiet dissent in the roomful of twenty-eight kids,  
she'd waved them for silence and went on to dissect the statement in blinding factuality.

  
"They just examined a few things that people had been taking for granted for years." She  
paused to glance around the class over her bifocals, searching for interested students, and  
stopping to glare at those who were falling asleep. "The researchers primarily concerned  
themselves with two types of love: passionate and companionate." She slipped a  
transparency on the projector and continued to talk quickly. "Passionate love  
encompassed tender sexual feelings, and the agony and ecstasy of emotions, while  
companionate was a deep, abiding affection."

  
Clark drew circles in the corners of his paper.

  
"They also addressed another aspect of love: its myths."

  
He stopped mid-circle, and looked up, curious.

  
"There are, they claimed, three main myths about love. One, that a person would know  
they were in love when they fell in love. Some sort of preternatural love-dar that would  
immediately alert you to the fact that yeah, you're head-over-heels for someone."

  
There was a class-wide giggle, and Dr. Polanski smiled at the reaction.

  
"You laugh now," she warned, "but how many of you have heard someone claim that  
they had finally found The One? Said that their sophomore boyfriend was _the_ guy for  
them, or the last girl they saw was _the_ girl for life?"

  
There was an uncomfortable shift in the room, and Clark thought crazily back to Lana, a  
flash of her dark, pretty eyes and smiling lips. He shook his head resolutely, ignoring the  
knowing looks from Chloe in order to banish traitorous ideas from his brain; he _did_  
love Lana, that was one of the few things he knew for certain.

  
"Truth is that most high school relationships don't last. Truth is that everyone one that  
comes along, in the minds of most people, _is_ the one. And we're almost always wrong,"  
Dr. Polanski concluded, looking thoughtful. "Myth number two is that love is a purely  
positive experience."

  
Clark rolled his eyes at that. Of _course_ it wasn't; anyone who'd ever _been_ in love  
knew _that_ one. After all, the three years he'd been in love with Lana Lang had been  
proof enough that love's ups and downs were hurtful and abrupt: Whitney, then being  
noble, and finally a slew of other reasons had intervened. If it wasn't giving Lana space  
to be with her boyfriend, then it was giving Lana space because her boyfriend had died.

  
Clark felt immediately ashamed at his last thought, hearing his father's voice echo loudly  
in his head in admonition; Whitney had died protecting America. It didn't matter what  
Whitney had done before, he'd done the right thing in the end, and that was what  
mattered.

  
"Myth number three is my personal favorite," Dr. Polanski said. "And that's that True  
Love lasts forever."

  
"Why wouldn't it?"

  
It took Clark a whole twelve seconds to realize that he was the one who'd said it. Chloe  
was watching him again, and he could see her pitying expression from his peripheral  
vision, as if he was a little kid, and she felt bad for how young he was.

  
Dr. Polanski turned off the overhead, and the room fell suddenly-silent without the  
background sound of the projector's fan. She smirked at him, crossing her arms over her  
narrow chest, eyeing him carefully, sizing him up.

  
"So, Clark, I assume you believe that True Love is forever?"

  
He nodded.

  
Having established himself as an enormous geek as far back as freshman year left him  
very little face to lose at the beckoned point of junior year; social death had occurred  
already, post-mortem loserdom was remarkably freeing. Lex said that he was being  
morbid, but Clark thought those were pretty big words coming from a guy who liked to  
let an entire town think he was just the crazy brat prince from the Scottish castle in the  
middle of Kansas.

  
She laughed, and the sound was bright. "Well, good for you, Clark. I don't look forward  
to the day you realize that it isn't true."

  
Clark opened his mouth to contest the point, feeling angry all of a sudden. As if he'd been  
brushed off, turned away from the movie theater because it was rated "R" and he was still  
a few years off.

  
She checked her watch. "That's it for today."

*****

  
"I don't know why you let her get to you, Clark," Chloe said, eyes never leaving the  
computer screen, fingers flying across the keys.

  
Clark was fascinated with the way she typed because Chloe tended to misspell more  
words than type them correctly; three fourths of the busy, productive clicks from her  
keyboard were from hitting the backspace key dozens and dozens of times per page.

  
She turned to level a knowing look at him. "She does it to get a rise out of the students.  
If you can't get them interested, at least you can get them infuriated, right?"

  
He almost pouted. "She's crushing the innocence of four classes of people, Chloe. How  
is she allowed to do that? In a public school?"

  
Chloe rolled her eyes. "Because she's been doing it for _years_, Clark."

  
There was a brief, almost-silence occupied only by the short sound of plastic.

  
Clark looked up to see a disgusted expression on Chloe's face.

  
"What?" he asked self-consciously.

  
She looked _pissed_.

  
"Don't tell me you actually think that ridiculous crush you have on Lana is you being in  
_true love_ with her, Clark," Chloe said, her voice low and shaking.

  
The immediate annoyance flit across Clark's face, but Chloe didn't back off.

  
In fact, she just bit her lip, exited out of whatever she was working on violently, and  
started shoving things into her backpack, not looking him in the face. He could see her  
shoulders trembling either in anger or some other incomprehensible emotion. Like most  
days, Clark didn't know what he'd done wrong, but it became very clear very quickly that  
he wished he could take it back, that he hadn't made Chloe upset.

  
She stopped suddenly, turning to glare up at him.

  
She was _crying_. Clark fought against the sudden and violent urge to throw himself flat  
on his belly in front of her and beg for mercy.

  
"You know, Clark," she said, voice weak, "I let you off easy at the spring formal, and I  
let you off easy for two years since that."

  
Clark winced and squirmed. He'd always known that Chloe hadn't quite gotten over him.  
Pete told him daily; Lana sometimes hinted at it. At the end of sophomore year, when  
Lex had finally and without great patience told Clark that if he heard _one more word_  
about how great Lana was, he'd shoot himself in the ass - Lex had mentioned something  
about the fact that Chloe was better, and still in love with him, to boot.

  
Clark just hadn't figured that Chloe _cared_ so much anymore.

  
At least, not enough to _cry_.

  
"Chloe - "

  
"Shut up!" Chloe yelled. She wiped angrily at her cheeks, sniffling pitifully as she said,  
"I don't expect you to ever feel the way about me that I want - ed you to, but - "

  
The rest of her sentence dropped off, she looked at the ground, took up her bookbag, and  
stumbled out, throwing a hasty "bye" over her shoulder. The sound of her footsteps  
echoed in the hallway, and Clark could only stare at the open door of the Torch office,  
wondering what exactly he'd done wrong, and how he'd done it so spectacularly.

*****

  
Lex was doing something complicated with his corporation that required about fourteen  
thousand people to take up almost-permanent residence at the castle. There was no  
shortage on space, but there was a definite run on breathing room. Since Lex's secretary  
was obsessive, and his publicist was both obsessive _and_ frightening, Lex had taken to  
hiding in a second-floor bathroom with comic books and really illicit amounts of brandy  
when he didn't want to answer any more questions about his company logo and who he'd  
be taking to the next party.

  
Clark had found him one day four weeks ago: pure luck, he'd called it; copious use of xray  
vision, he knew.

  
He snuck through the house as quickly and quietly as possible, avoiding in quick  
succession Vivian the publicist, Charity the secretary, Bill the chief accountant, Darryl  
the technology consultant, and Ingrid, whose exact job description no one really knew.  
Clark feared for Lex's sanity. Greatly.

  
He tiptoed into a nondescript hallway, down to the fourth door on the left, and eased it  
open, almost laughing out loud at the sudden sight of Lex almost jumping to his feet.

  
"Clark!" his friend breathed, clutching a copy of the New York Post in one hand and the  
tub faucet with the other.

  
Lex, in thousand-dollar tailored pants, black silk socks, and a dark plum-colored shirt,  
was sprawled out in the bathtub with a bottle of brandy and three different news  
publications. He looked tired, haunted, and just on this side of ridiculous, which was  
exactly how he felt most of the time those days, too.

  
Clark smirked. "Definite CEO material, Lex," he said.

  
Lex didn't bother to try and look dignified before settling back into the tub, smiling lazily  
at Clark, just breathing like there weren't at least six frantic people downstairs looking for  
him and yelling at his servants. No, he didn't bother - just _exuded_ dignity, even hiding  
from his subordinates.

  
Clark sat down on the rim of the claw-footed bathtub as Lex said, "It's a leader's  
prerogative to give his employees room in which to maneuver. It shows them for what  
they really are, gives insight to human mettle." Clark rolled his eyes. "That, or the fact  
that a modern CEO's image Consultant is tantamount to God and I find that somewhat  
terrifying," Lex admitted.

  
"Has she been telling you what to wear, again?" Clark asked, barely repressing laughter.

  
"Apparently, polls indicate me too effeminate to be a strong economic leader," Lex  
grumbled and picked at his perfectly pressed shirt.

  
"'Effeminate'?" Clark asked, cocking an eyebrow.

  
Lex had fourteen cars, an enormous house with turrets, gorgeous women hanging on his  
arm at all hours, and according to Metropolis Magazine, he "dripped sex in disgusting  
excess." Lex played pool all the time and drank Ty Nant water. Short of erecting  
enormous phallic objects on the front lawn of Luthor manor, Lex couldn't _get_ any more  
male. Clark didn't find any of those facts synching with Vivian's public opinion polls.

  
Lex frowned. "Don't go there, Clark."

  
Clark couldn't resist. "You do wear a _lot_ of pink."

  
"It's _mauve_. And for your information, GQ calls it the new blue, so shut the hell up,"  
Lex muttered, burying his face back into the New York Post, reading the box scores on  
the latest game between the Mets and the Dodgers. His voice was low, but Clark heard,  
"Better than goddamn _flannel_..." just under Lex's breath.

  
"Flannel is manly," Clark said, ridiculously chipper, all situational influences considered.

  
Lex made a sound that would have been a snort if he wasn't so far above those sorts of  
things. But he paused at something too-bright in Clark's tone and looked up, gray-blue  
eyes curious in the late-afternoon sun, flashing in the pools of light that pattered his floor,  
thrown by the stained glass. There was something..._odd_.

  
"Clark?" he asked, much softer.

  
Clark didn't say a word, just stared and thought, his mood suddenly somber again as he  
recalled the expression on Chloe's face, angry and frustrated and pained. He took a deep  
breath, and finally said, "Just hypothetically."

  
Lex raised his eyebrows. "Yes?"

  
"Say someone is learning about experiments about love in a certain AP Psychology  
class," Clark started. "And say those experiments included - "

  
"Yes, I know," Lex said impatiently, "Hatfield-Berscheid. Three myths, two types of  
love. Go on, Clark."

  
Clark had given up on trying to find out how Lex _knew_ so damn much when he was  
only six years older. It was as if Lex had actually _learned_ everything that he'd studied  
in school, as opposed to cramming frantically the nights before exams. And to add insult  
to injury, Lex knew more random trivia than anyone that Clark knew, and could easily  
win any round of play-against-the-players Jeopardy while deeply involved in explaining  
the controversy over whether ancient Macedonia was really a Greek-speaking nation,  
Alex Trebec mispronouncing things on TV in the background. Clark had seen him do it.

  
"And suppose said person made mention about said experiments in a certain newspaper  
office after class," Clark went on, seeing the knowing expression dawn on Lex's face.

  
"I hope you're not _too_ badly injured," Lex said dryly.

  
Clark winced. "If _only_. She _cried_, Lex."

  
Lex sighed, setting down the newspaper and resting his head against the cold porcelain  
curl of the tub, staring at the ceiling, a frown on his face. "You know, Clark," he started.  
"I would tell you just not to mention those sorts of things around Chloe, but experience  
dictates that avoidance doesn't really work."

  
Clark wanted to say something petty about Lex and his father, but bit his tongue.

  
"Did you mention Lana?" Lex asked, wincing at the name, as if saying it was spelling his  
own doom.

  
"_No_. I just said that Dr. Polanski shouldn't be talking about how True Love wasn't  
real, and how she shouldn't be crushing peoples' souls," Clark argued, growing  
increasingly annoyed. He just didn't see where he'd been in the wrong, or why Chloe had  
overreacted like that and cried when there wasn't anything over which to cry.

  
Lex turned to him at that, looking vaguely unsettled. "The Hatfield-Berscheid  
experiments didn't hypothesize that there wasn't anything like True Love, Clark," he  
lectured. "They speculated that _all_ love was true, every kind, every instance. But  
simply that True Love doesn't last forever." Lex frowned playfully. "You weren't paying  
attention, Clark. I'm horrified. My property taxes pay for that gold and red vacuum of  
school spirit of yours, you know."

  
Clark huffed. "I _know_."

  
"Sure you did, Clark," Lex said, turning away again. "Look, stop beating yourself up  
over it. It sounds like she was just wound up and, for lack of a better term, 'freaked out.'"

  
Clark felt a smile work its way across his face.

  
Lex had a way about him. Clark always felt better after having worked through his  
problems with Lex, like some sort of enormous verbal flow chart, and only Lex had the  
dry-erase marker.

  
It was more than a little amazing to Clark that at the not-so-tender age of seventeen to see  
Lex Luthor, heir-apparent to the largest agribusiness empire on Earth, leader of the  
fastest-growing new startup corporation in the Midwest, laying in a tub while hiding from  
his employees. It was beyond description that this incredibly busy man, bubbling to the  
brim with ambition and big plans, carefully kept optimism and barely-concealed energy,  
would take the time out of his schedule to sit around and listen to a high school student  
complain about making his friend cry.

  
And Clark didn't like to examine it too closely, but...

  
...It made him breathe a little more quickly to recognize the comfortable friendliness, the  
affectionate warmth in Lex's eyes as he offered advice, spouted anecdotes, and was  
generally _there_ at Clark's leisure, fulfilling the role of "best friend" far better than the  
too-often-absent Pete.

  
Lex employed almost four thousand people; Pete was on the football team. It was hard to  
Clark to wrap his mind around how _Lex_ seemed to make time for Clark, and how Pete  
found time for Clark only when it was convenient.

  
Lex angled Clark a curious look. "What are you smiling about?"

  
Not like Clark was going to tell him all that sentimental garbage, so he fumbled for the  
next best answer. "You said 'freaked out,' and I could _hear_ the finger quotes, Lex."

  
Lex actually chuckled softly at that. "MTV tries its best, Clark, but Excelsior wins."

  
It made sense.

  
Lex was more likely to say, "Had a minor psychotic episode in relation to certain  
pronounced incidences of cognitive dissonance whereupon Chloe was incapable of either  
rationalizing or repressing" than say "Chloe freaked out." But he _had_, and Clark  
figured that had to mean _something_ about his influence and how Lex was starting to  
loosen up after all. And it only took three years, Clark found himself thinking ruefully.

  
Clark's ears perked up at the sound of footsteps growing closer, but before he could open  
his mouth to warn Lex to run or hide, the door to the bathroom burst open.

  
Vivian was exactly a foot shorter than Clark's impressive six three, had dark dishwaterblonde  
hair, and had managed to gain and lose something like forty pounds in the two  
years that she'd worked for Lex. (Lex, however, did acknowledge that her tendency to  
either overeat, under-eat, chainsmoke, or panic herself into weight loss or gain were  
probably his own fault; she wanted hazard pay.) She had dark brown eyes and they were  
sparking with irritation. There were printed pages in her hands, a cell phone in her  
pocket, Clark knew, and dozens of people working for her twenty-four hours a day in  
order to make Lex look like a good, wholesome CEO. And Lex _hated_ her. With,  
quote, "The passion of a thousand suns."

  
Lex scowled and sank down lower into the tub, whispering "Damn."

  
Clark snickered.

  
Vivian shot him a glare that very clearly screamed, Get out. She said, "Hello, Clark."

  
Clark cleared his throat and excused himself, feeling no small amount of pity as he heard  
Vivian gearing up for another speech on why her being on the LexCorp payroll would be  
absolutely pointless if her stubborn employer didn't follow her advice, and why hadn't  
Lex started wearing the cobalt blue shirt she'd had Hugo Boss send? Barney's had made  
available fabulously masculine ties; it was only Lex's hereditary mule-like nature that  
stopped his conquest of the Bible belt, etc. etc.

  
And from the hallway, he heard Lex:

  
"Has anyone ever told you what an incredible _nuisance_ you are, Vivian?"

*****

  
Clark let the phone ring fourteen times before he hung up.

  
Chloe was obviously taking "freak out" to a whole new and previously unknown level.

  
"She still not answering?" Clark turned around to see his mother looking at him  
sympathetically. He frowned and shook his head, noting her pitying expression.

  
Clark flopped down at the kitchen table, sulking. "Lex said she freaked out."

  
Clark, over the years, had learned that when it came to issues of teenaged girls, it was  
always in his best interest to consult his mother. After all, Martha Kent was no stranger  
to teenaged mood swings, and she'd been hearing his, Pete's, his dad's, _and_ Chloe's for  
years. Twice in the past, she'd flat-out told him it was a surprise that Chloe hadn't yet lost  
her patience with Clark; if it was her, his mom had said, she would have probably brained  
him with something heavy and blunt years ago.

  
"She's probably just in a bad mood, honey," she said soothingly, pressing a hand to  
Clark's cheek. "It's always rough for teenaged girls, especially with boys they like."

  
Her son's face darkened: shame and irrepressible annoyance. "Well, maybe she should  
pick someone else to like and stop bothering me!"

  
There was a horrible silence in the kitchen, and Clark's eyes widened as he realized that  
he'd said it out loud. His mother looked appalled, and Clark suddenly felt like pond  
scum.

  
"Oh, my God," Clark whispered.

  
His mother's face was tight, but forgiving. "It's okay, Clark, I know you're under a - "

  
"No, it's not!" he protested, frantic suddenly. "Chloe's been one of my best friends since,  
since eighth grade!"

  
Chloe had always been good to him, cared even though he was the outcast. And Clark  
admitted it, as horrible as it sounded, that the fact that Chloe had seen enough good in  
him to _like_ him had always been a huge ego-boost. She was cute and smart and  
everything that he should have liked in a girl, and he felt four steps beyond awful to know  
that not only did he not reciprocate, that he caused her pain, too.

  
He had _no_ right to be angry about it.

  
"_Clark_."

  
He looked up to see his mom's eyes hard. "Yeah?"

  
She sighed. "Look... That's the thing about love, Clark, it's not reasonable, it's not  
rational, and we can't control is or make it work the way we like." She looked like she  
was talking from experience, and with the fallout between her father and herself over  
Clark's father, she might have been. "It would be simpler if we could tell ourselves to  
stop caring about someone because it's inconvenient."

  
Clark swallowed hard and nodded.

  
"So there's no point in being mad at Chloe for caring about you, and no point in being  
mad at yourself for being annoyed, Clark," she continued softly. "Sometimes, that's just  
the way it is. And you know, it doesn't last forever," she said in a consoling tone.

  
Clark's head shot up at that: "it doesn't last forever," and "True Love isn't forever."

  
Was everyone sinking into pessimism? Or was it just some fact that he'd never bothered  
to look at too closely before? Neither option sounded particularly good.

  
"Okay. Thanks, Mom," he managed.

  
She ran a hand comfortingly over the crown of his head, and went off to finish preparing  
dinner. There was only so much warm wisdom that she could be offer; there was still the  
real world to address, and teenaged angst was in a separate galaxy at best.

  
Clark sat still and thought to himself for a long time.

*****

  
"Clark, you know I like you, but..."

  
It didn't hurt anymore, since Clark had heard it (at present count, more to follow,  
obviously) fourteen times already. He always asked and Lana always gave the same  
response; she liked him, that much had been articulated, but she wasn't ready for a  
relationship yet, not so soon after Whitney had died.

  
Lex said it was like a game, Guess the Rationalization.

  
So Clark had turned Not Strangling Lex With One of His Four Hundred Dollar Ties into  
a game, too.

  
The Talon was busy that night, people coming and going as if the cappuccinos were  
actually _good_. (Clark used to think so, but then Lex had gotten bored one afternoon,  
driven them out to Metropolis, and they'd had the real stuff.) Lana had hired two new  
baristas and a waitress, so she was sitting pretty, chin cupped in one palm looking over  
her domain. She didn't even look bothered by the fact that she'd been feeding him bad  
excuses for almost four months.

  
He had to try, anyway. It made him feel manly.

  
"It's just a movie, Lana, we could go as friends," he offered, and realized with a sudden  
and harsh clarity that he was really sick of her bad explanations.

  
She smiled at him sweetly. "Thanks for everything, Clark, but - "

  
He waved his hand absently. "Nevermind, Lana. I understand."

  
Lana was still beautiful, relatively uncomplicated in the grand scheme of things. She had  
lost her parents in the meteor shower that had been his fault, grew up an orphan, the  
beloved princess of Smallville who had been defined in the horrible afternoon in October  
when fire fell from the sky with her face on the cover of Time. Everyone loved Lana; it  
was so easy for Clark to love her, too. She was everything he was supposed to like, like  
the lead female in a romantic comedy.

  
Chloe was the best friend: smart, quirky, and kind. Who, according to _some_ romantic  
comedies, Clark was supposed to dump Lana for at some point or another.

  
Though, last year, either (according to which publication one liked to read, The New  
Yorker or the National Review) in an uplifting example of how society was growing  
more enlightened or degenerating into a modern, sprawling Sodom and Gomorrah, some  
woman had written and directed a box-office hit romantic comedy that hadn't ended  
either way. Zachary the brilliant young architect fell for Julia who ignored him and he  
drank vodka with Gemma who introduced him to her friend, Dorian. Two hours and four  
minutes later, Zachary and Dorian shared the first mass-released gay kiss on screen and  
became romantic icons like a homoerotic version of Kate Winslet and Leonardo  
DiCaprio.

  
But Clark had decided, after generous teasing from what seemed like*everyone in  
Kansas,* that being a teenaged alien with superpowers was complicated enough without  
having to add questioning of sexual orientation.

  
Lex had dismissed the movie as garbage, and told Clark that there were great art nouveau  
movies about real gay romance if he wanted to see them.

  
That had started a really _interesting_ line of questioning which had ended abruptly when  
the 36D flavor of the week had wandered into the den wearing Lex's so-called  
'effeminate' plum-colored shirt. At least Lex had looked embarrassed, even if she hadn't.

  
Clark checked his watch.

  
"Look, I've got to run," he started easily. In the last year, leaving Lana had gotten easier  
than coming to her. "I told Lex I'd meet him."

  
Lana narrowed her eyes for just a fraction of a second. "You guys are close."

  
Clark smiled, and realized out of all the expressions that had crossed his face so far that  
evening, it was the closest to being real. "He's my best friend, Lana."

  
She looked at him as if it wasn't a good enough explanation.

  
For a moment, a thought flit through his head: what if it _wasn't_?

*****

  
Clark noted the minor explosion of activity at Luthor manor with a critical eye, swung a  
left, and headed back home. He knew he had an open invitation to the house, but he  
didn't want to disturb Lex while he was in the throes of actual productivity. Besides  
which, Vivian sort of...scared him. A lot.

  
He zipped through dinner with his folks, excused himself to his room, and read there until  
he couldn't focus on the words on the page any longer. Forcing himself to read _The  
Scarlet Letter_ hadn't been fun to begin with; the prospect of a more interesting avenue of  
thought sort of completely defeated the purpose of even trying. Hester Prynne was a  
chump, though Clark had a sneaking suspicion that Lex would disagree, and start some  
extended diatribe about American literature and Hawthorne's rejection of some literary  
style or another. Hearing about Transcendentalism from his English teacher was mindnumbing  
enough; if _Lex_ got into it, then Clark would probably lapse into a coma from  
premature brain death.

  
True Love and its impermanence was everywhere he looked that day.

  
And so were chumps: Clark was a chump, so was Chloe. So was Hester.

  
Hester had loved Arthur Dimmesdale enough to sacrifice her reputation and ruin her life,  
bear the shame of an illegitimate child on her own; her love was True, and real, and  
visceral, Clark thought. But in the end, Dimmesdale had been weak and undeserving,  
and he'd _died_, leaving Hester alone again. If that wasn't an unfair and tragic conclusion  
to an unfair and tragic affair to begin with, then Clark didn't know what was.

  
True Love, true and pure and good, had ended.

  
Just as Hatfield and Berscheid had said it would, just as his mother had said. There was a  
horrifying transience to it now, as if everything was simply a layer of surface material,  
about to be blown away in the wind like debris or sand.

  
True Love hadn't been good enough.

  
Neither was coffee, eventually, because he woke up three hours later, his face pressed  
into the seam of the book, smelling the Smallville High School library.

  
Clark blinked thickly and looked out the window, the midnight stealing over the heavens.  
Stars were coming out, and he fought a primal urge to sneak out to the barn, stare out of  
the telescope, get lost in something greater than himself.

  
Clark wondered if it was some sort of phase that all teenagers went through. If  
questioning the nature and validity of Love was something that everyone did in their  
teens, in between tests and pointless quizzes and studying for the SATs. He lay back in  
his sheets and stared up at his ceiling, wondering if Lana or Pete or Chloe had ever kept  
themselves awake at night, thinking too deeply about things that felt like they should  
have come naturally, been cut and dry, black and white.

  
True, Beauty, and Love, weren't those three simple, plain concepts that were supposed to  
touch the lives of everyone on the face of the earth in equal measure and pressure?  
Wasn't Love supposed to be the best, least complicated, simplest thing? After all, his  
parents loved him, and he loved them back. It was easy, flexible. It got tense sometimes  
in between fights about small things that weren't important in the long run - but in the  
end, Clark never doubted that his parents loved him. It was a question of degree, not  
presence.

  
So why had romantic love become so complicated? Why "passionate love" so  
confusing?

  
And why was Clark obsessing, anyway?

  
He'd laid out his life very clearly: he would try to reign in his powers, do what he could  
to save people, be a good friend and son, stay out of the spotlight, and love Lana.

  
He'd always loved Lana.

  
Clark shut his mind down, refused to let himself think any further, and rolled out of bed  
to wash up. It was late, and he was tired of his own brain.

  
Idly, he wondered if that was how Lex felt all the time: worn from a day of overactive  
analysis, cut to pieces by his own mind.

*****

  
"So, naturally, disappointment is part of every relationship."

  
That's the thing Clark had never understood about Chrissy: being a teenager was  
equivalent to total and ceaseless misery. The idea that someone would go to such  
extraordinary and murderous lengths in order to preserve the most awkward years of their  
lives was beyond Clark's understanding. The thought that the fourteen to eighteen set  
were the _best_ years of his life made Clark really _antsy_ about living past nineteen.

  
"The Hatfield-Berscheid experiments, as we covered yesterday in class, destroyed some  
age-old stereotypes about love, and I know some of you aren't...exactly happy about  
that," Dr. Polanski said, an indulgent smile on her face. She seemed to be looking right at  
Clark, and he barely repressed a scowl.

  
Chloe had stopped him in the hall was a vague, uncomfortable apology, saying something  
about how she had been having a bad day, and that she shouldn't have taken it out on  
him. But there had been a grudging tone in her voice, like she didn't mean anything that  
came out of her mouth, like she was waiting for him to interrupt with, "No, Chloe, you  
were right. What I feel for Lana is crap."

  
What Clark felt for Lana was the only thing he really understood.

  
Dr. Polanski turned on the overhead, where her looping handwriting had scrawled  
"Reciprocity effect" in all capital letters and underlined it twice.

  
"Reciprocity involves liking or loving those who show they like you. It extends to  
idealizing one's partner or perceptions thereof."

  
Clark tensed.

  
"Like idealizing someone, thinking they have no faults or are the exception to the rule  
when really, it's just because you don't want to come to the terms with the fact that your  
sweetheart is just as fallible and bad a person as anyone else," Dr. Polanski added.

  
The fan in the room was inordinately loud. As if it was a drumroll. Clark fidgeted in his  
seat, bit his lip, tapped his pen, and tried to block out everything she was saying.

  
Chrissy had it all wrong, Clark reflected darkly.

  
Being a teenager was a hazing ritual; those who didn't lose their minds or commit suicide  
by the time they reached twenty-one got a 'Pass Go, Collect $200' card to adulthood and  
reality. Turning fourteen had led to sticky sheets in the morning, mortifyingly bad  
conversations with parents regarding things that parents should _never_ talk to kids  
about.

  
Fifteen had led to nightmarishly awkward incidences with the opposite gender and  
_locker rooms_ where the art of "not looking" was honed to perfection or eventual death  
was accepted. Sixteen was terrified "dates" where both parties were too busy panicking  
and regulating their heartbeats to really enjoy each other's company. Seventeen provided  
two bad kisses with some girl that Clark didn't even really like, crying Chloe, Lana  
making excuses, and Pete going further and further away.

  
Seventeen was also _AP Psychology_.

  
Clark _hated_ Psychology, and decided that the entire thing was Lex's fault.

  
"I thought it was fascinating, frankly," Lex had said one lazy afternoon in the barn. And  
since Clark was new and shiny and dumb and _trusted_ Lex's judgment, he'd signed up  
for the class before reading the fine print.

  
"Will make you toss, turn, and reevaluate those things which prove fundamental to your  
sanity on a daily basis," the four point font whispered. Bludgeoning Lex would only  
appease some of the tension, and now, thanks to AP Psychology, Clark knew _why_  
physical violence was only a temporary release.

  
"I know everyone is looking at this lesson and thinking, "Well, I'm different." But that's  
the thing about Psychology," Dr. Polanski said, her voice soothing, taming the beast of  
the teenaged ego. "These sorts of things apply to everyone, on every corner of the earth.  
There's no point in being ashamed, or embarrassed, or worried. Everyone falls victim to  
this, and love, being so universal, more so than anything else."

  
Clark narrowed his eyes and slumped down in his seat.

  
Dr. Polanski uncapped an overhead pen and wrote, "Proximity effect."

*****

  
"I see Vivian won."

  
Lex was wearing a cobalt blue shirt, and it brought out the brilliant color of his eyes,  
flaring with almost-childlike petulance. He was sitting at his desk, leafing through a  
mountain of papers and frowning at all of them.

  
"Vivian didn't win," Lex said in a short tone. "I conceded after seeing that the shirt did,  
in fact, put on display some of my more attractive physical assets."

  
Clark smirked but didn't push. His expression faltered. "You're busy. Should I go?"

  
Charity, being the most patient member of the Luthor staff, had told Clark that Lex wasn't  
restructuring the company, rewriting the bylaws, or any of the other guesses that Clark  
had made already. Lex was about to however, attempt to make himself presentable to  
venture capitalists, for a new, large, and very ambitious project that would need massive  
amounts of funding. Charity had made special efforts to emphasize how utterly vital it  
was to the future of LexCorp that Lex take it seriously, and be left alone enough to work  
with concentration. So, Lex being Lex, wasn't losing his mind nearly as much as he  
should have been, which was why Vivian was doing it for him.

  
Lex sighed. "Probably." A pause. "So sit _down_ already, Clark."

  
Clark smiled and made himself comfortable on a leather couch, feeling it curve and mold  
itself to his body. The leather gave a soft sigh, as if to say, "Finally, you're back."

  
Lex set down his pen and glared around the room. "I'm going to fire Vivian, Clark."

  
He'd been saying so for months already.

  
"Why do you need a publicist, anyway?" Clark asked, genuinely curious.

  
"The same reason my _father_ has one, Clark," Lex said smoothly, his voice pitched like  
silk and satin and a dozen other flawless things. "Just because you're a brilliant  
businessman doesn't mean you're a brilliant diplomat, and in my case, though I'm fairly  
good with both aspects, I have a somewhat disreputable past."

  
'Somewhat,' of course, being the gentlest word for it, Clark knew. Lex's past was the type  
of thing that got people crucified even in the Daily Planet. And that was based purely on  
what Clark _knew_ about Lex's past; he didn't envy Vivian.

  
They shared a brief, comfortable silence.

  
Clark cleared his throat and said, "I'm losing my mind, and it's your fault."

  
Lex raised his eyebrows, looking almost as if he was caught off guard. "Really?"

  
Clark frowned. "You said Psychology was fun."

  
"I said Psychology was _fascinating_, Clark," Lex said pointedly, smirking. "And even if  
I had said "fun," my definition of amusing and yours are vastly different: clubbing or  
cow-tipping. You ought to have known better, anyway."

  
"Tipping the cows _kills_ them, Lex," Clark said.

  
His friend rolled his gray-blue eyes. "Forgive me. I've never felt compelled to brave  
fields full of bovine feces in order to push one over in the dead of the night."

  
Clark had realized sometime near the end of his sophomore year that on average, to every  
one word that he said, Lex could say five and make them _all_ sound many times smarter  
than anything that had come out of Clark's mouth just moments before. Clark could  
probably read from an _encyclopedia_, have Lex talk in response about diet sodas, and  
still have Lex sound more intelligent. He'd given up on being frustrated months ago.

  
He chose snark now.

  
"So you survived the wilds of the Metropolis nightlife, and you're afraid of little dung?"

  
Lex smiled for real this time, eyes dancing. "For the record, Clark, I never claimed to  
have "survived" the Metropolis nightlife; had I accomplished that feat, I very much doubt  
I'd be in Smallville, _processing_ said dung." There was no bitterness in his tone, only  
idle amusement, like the thing that had hurt him in the past, banished him to nowhere,  
had scabbed over. "Besides," Lex continued, "you were saying about Psychology?"

  
Yes, Clark _was_.

  
"Dr. Polanski is purposely trying to destroy my view of love, Lex," Clark whined.

  
Lex laughed, and Clark said, "It's not _funny_, Lex! She's...she's talking about  
"reciprocity effect" and "proximity effect" and "idealization" and "cognitive dissonance"  
and all sorts of things that just out and out negate the idea of love!"

  
"Clark," Lex finally said, "you said it yourself a long time ago:; it's entirely different  
when the person likes you back."

  
Reciprocity effect, and only the slightest twinge at the memory of Kyla. Clark figured  
that he should still feel bad about that, but the more he'd thought about that, the more he  
realized that she'd been - as bad as it had sounded - a blip on the radar. There was Lana  
before, and Lana after.

  
Besides, Lana had never tried to kill people. Clark knew he'd cared for Kyla deeply,  
though, and couldn't really repress the wave of shame he felt every time he remembered  
her without any grief, as if the affection he'd felt while she was alive was a passing fancy,  
not real at all. Looking at her bracelet made him feel dirty, like he'd taken something  
under false pretenses, and he couldn't muster enough courage to return it to Kyla's  
grandfather.

  
"And you can't say that your being around Chloe for ages didn't have an affect on the fact  
that she has feelings for you now."

  
Proximity effect, and yet another black mark against Clark. He'd never liked hurting  
people, and of all the people in the world, he'd _never_ wanted to cause Chloe pain. She  
was so good and sweet to him, always there, bright and funny and...perfect. But oh so  
wrong all at the same time. It used to be simpler, but back then, Clark hadn't ever had to  
tuck his erection under his belt in order to stave off embarrassment and Chloe didn't have  
breasts, either. Not really. 'A' cups didn't _really_ count.

  
"Plus, you unable to tell me _one_ bad thing about Lana."

  
Clark just glared at that.

  
Sure he could, he thought. Lana was...short?

  
"Cognitive dissonance isn't even really about love, Clark," Lex said easily, like a silvertongued  
repository of knowledge. "It's about convincing yourself of one thing or another  
because it's easier to swallow than the truth."

  
Well, _damn_.

  
Clark huffed. Lex laughed.

  
"If I didn't know any better, Clark," Lex quipped, "I'd say you drop by only to be verbally  
abused, proven wrong, and annoyed." His eyes were bright with something happy, and it  
made the knot in Clark's stomach loosen to see that carefree expression on Lex's face.

  
"You know better," Clark shot back. "I come to take advantage of how really  
disgustingly rich you are."

  
Lex rolled his eyes.

  
Fast cars, servants, indoor pools, an entertainment room in the castle with technology that  
shamed the multiplex forty-five minutes away, and Clark was _still_ more likely to spend  
two and a half hours sitting around Lex's den shooting the breeze and playing pool than  
enjoy any of the things that Lex would freely give.

  
The phone on Lex's desk burst to life, and Charity's voice piped out, sounding squeaky  
and far away, slightly out of breath: "Lex! Your three fifteen is here, and the photo shoot  
for "Fortune" is in two hours, so get rid of your _guest_."

  
Lex's mouth tensed at her tone, and Clark got the distinct impression that the only thing  
that saved Charity's job at that moment was the fact that Clark was there. Lex had a  
tendency to repress his more temperamental side around Clark, as if he felt obligated to  
be a positive role model or something, play mentor and big brother where Clark had no  
other point of reference. As if Clark would ever _need_ to know how to be polite to  
people who worked for him, act incredibly smooth, be rich with class, and drink brandy  
gracefully, anyway.

  
"Thank you, Miss Everett," Lex said tightly. "That'll be all."

  
There was another silence. Not comfortable.

  
Clark squirmed for a bit and Lex fumed silently in his chair, halfway between  
embarrassed and enraged.

  
"Sorry, Lex," Clark finally said, for lack of anything better.

  
"_Don't_ be," Lex muttered. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but cut  
himself off, rubbing a hand over his face, all-at-once exhausted again. "Maybe you  
should go, Clark. I'm sure your mom wouldn't appreciate you being late for dinner."

  
"Sure, Lex," Clark finally said.

  
Lex offered him a weak smile. "See you around, Clark."

  
Their eyes met over Lex's desk, and they held the stare for a moment.

  
Just four feet of actual space. Compared to the hours by plane that Clark had grown used  
to as Lex built his company, romanced different debutantes, argued with the stock  
market, and had pissing contests with his father.

  
It was just four feet.

  
Clark had never felt so far away.

*****

  
Orange sunlight streamed through the kitchen windows, creating a halo of copper-gold  
light around his mother's head. Clark stopped a moment at the door, smiling at Martha  
Kent's profile. It was his honest opinion that his mother was one of the most beautiful  
women in the world. She made the house home and being seventeen bearable; she also  
made the best apple pie in Kansas.

  
"Hey, Mom," he said finally, drinking in the sight of her turning to smile at him.

  
"Hi. How was school, honey?" she asked, wiping her hands on a dishtowel and  
abandoning dirty pots and pans for a moment, focused entirely on him.

  
Aside from his parents, the only person who ever paid that much attention was Lex.

  
He sighed. "I'm hating AP Psychology more and more every day."

  
She laughed. "When I took Psychology in college, I came home from every class  
convinced I had another disorder." She patted him on the shoulder. "Don't take it too  
seriously, Clark. A lot of Psychology is just conjecture."

  
Clark didn't know what "conjecture" meant, but figured that he should probably find out  
before he took his SATs in a month and a half.

  
He shouldered his backpack again and said, "Yeah, sure, Mom." And started to leave.

  
"Wait - Clark?"

  
He turned to see a nervous expression on his mom's face. "Yeah, Mom?"

  
She sighed. "I got a call from Ms. Bertram, today, Clark."

  
He stared back at her blankly. Bertram? Not a teacher, not an acquaintance, not even  
someone on his delivery route who could be calling to complain about the service.

  
"Vivian Bertram?" his mom supplied, and Clark's heart jumped into his throat. His mom  
saw the look of recognition in his eyes and went on. "I know you and Lex are best  
friends, Clark, but she says that they're in the middle of something really important, and  
that it's for the best if you just...stay away for a while."

  
That made something really ugly and feral rise up in Clark's brain.

  
But he'd cursed in front of his mother before, and her reaction had been worse than the  
threat of having his mouth washed out with soap, so Clark just nodded tightly, bit his  
tongue, and raced up the steps.

  
Everything was complicated now.

  
His penis had a mind of its own; Pete was never around; Chloe had to wear a real bra;  
Lana reciprocated but didn't act; Lex was...otherwise occupied.

  
_Everything_ was complicated.

*****

  
Clark was sitting in a desolate corner of Luthor manor's gardens, having checked for  
security cameras, wandering security personnel, and Vivian. Lex _never_ went out into  
the gardens. "My asthma might have gone away with the meteor shower, Clark," he'd  
mentioned one day, sneering at all the foliage, "but I still have a fairly negative reaction  
to copious amounts of flower pollen." Clark had just nodded and added "copious" to the  
list of words that he was probably supposed to know already; he had looked it up and  
endeavored (another Lex word, two weeks ago) to use it as often as possible.

  
Technically, Vivian had said not to _bother_, Lex.

  
And stalking, if done properly, really didn't bother much of anyone.

  
He was x-raying the entire compound, and he'd had some trouble at first, but settled  
finally on the image of Lex standing over his desk, hands slipped in his pockets and face  
hard. Vivian walked into the room and his eyes sparked with something just short of  
anger. Lex said something, and Vivian set her hands on her hips, face just as hard, before  
replying, her expression much more calm than Lex. Then Lex yelled something, and  
Vivian yelled back, waving her arms and motioning around herself, pointing at Lex's  
things. Lex shut his mouth, bit his lip, and looked at the ground before glancing up and  
mouthing one sentence. Vivian raised her eyebrows, nodded slowly, and left.

  
Clark blinked, and wished that he had _superhearing_ or something useful like that.

  
Oh, but he could _imagine_ what had been said.

  
"You called Clark's parents, Vivian," Lex had said.

  
"I was acting in the best interests of LexCorp and yourself," Vivian had said in reply.

  
"I _know_ what's in my best interests, Vivian, and I don't need you _alienating_ my  
friends in order to achieve it!" Lex had cried, enraged.

  
"You obviously _don't_ because when you invite that boy into the castle to waste your  
time _and_ ours, you're not thinking clearly and you're not taking your job seriously!"  
Vivian would yell back.

  
Lex had sighed and said, "You're released from your position, Vivian. Please leave."

  
Clark thought that would be a very satisfactory turn of events, and decided as he saw  
Vivian disappear down a hallway that he would call Lex the next afternoon and invite  
him over to hang out or play basketball. (Clark hated to admit it, but despite alien  
superpowers, Lex _still_ had a better layup than he did. Which sucked, since Lex was  
also three inches _shorter_.)

  
Then again, Clark realized unhappily, there was also a psychological concept called  
"projection" and what he was saying held vague overtones of _that_ particular defense  
mechanism. And maybe, Lex wasn't chastising Vivian for having called the Kents at all,  
_maybe_, Lex was arguing with Vivian the same way that Lex argued with Clark,: over  
stupid things, which meant that Lex _liked_ Vivian.

  
_Maybe_ Lex was picking a fight with Vivian over what kind of _curtains_ they wanted  
for the castle, since, you know, _maybe_ Lex liked Vivian _a lot_.

  
Clark _hated_, _hated_ AP Psychology.

  
He narrowed his eye and focused again, pushing too hard because he could see through  
Lex's clothes now, deep in his bones, before he pulled out and focused. Lex wandering  
around the second floor of the castle, looking vaguely dissatisfied, though the manor was  
quiet for the first time in weeks. Lex was picking at the walls, pulling at tapestries, too  
close to _pouting_ to be real or sober.

  
Though to be honest, Clark had never seen Lex inebriated.

  
In fact, Clark had never really seen Lex lose control when Lex had any control at all to be  
had. There were moments, of course, but they were meteor-rock induced. And other  
times, when Clark thought that he'd finally gotten to Lex, his friend had just shut down,  
iron walls coming down behind blue eyes, a hard tilt to his mouth, and a new, pretty  
girlfriend in the castle all weekend long. Clark figured that during moments like those,  
Lex really earned the 'Debauchery' that seemed to be his middle name. And Clark had  
never really figured out the whys or hows of it all; what made Lex go off on some  
occasions, and why Vivian could spend two _months_ not-so-subtly questioning his  
masculinity and Lex could just shrug her off at the end of a day.

  
Clark sat there and leaned back, watching at a comfortable distance, and wondered if it  
was normal, accepted, average, to be completely possessed.

  
Lex made amazing overtures of friendship, did things that were beyond the scope of most  
teenagers or even adults. It was facilitated by the money, but given without intent that  
the dollar signs showed through: Lex was Lex simply because he was, frozen thick with a  
foot of ice around himself, and all geek pride and hardcore science fiend in his heart and  
head; Lex was having two complete sets of Warrior Angel comics, and not-so-secretly  
being torn over the destroyed friendship in the comics more than the so-called victims;  
Lex was purchasing video game systems over E-bay because he was too proud to walk  
into a Wal-Mart and ask for an N64, and just because he had money didn't mean he had  
to _waste_ it; Lex was driving gloves and the slick smell of oil on leather; Lex was  
freshly polished shoes and a world of confusing devotion the likes of which Clark had  
never really seen before, never really understood.

  
Lex was also...a million miles away.

  
Clark glanced at his watch and felt all the blood drain out of his face before he bolted.

  
Missing dinner was one thing; missing dinner by two hours to stalk one's best friend was  
quite another.

*****

  
The test on Social Psychology was probably the best that Clark had done all year. Dr.  
Polanski beamed at him before handing down a scantron full of neatly-darkened circles  
and 96 written in red marker on the corner. It was ironic that Clark would do so well in  
the only class he really _hated_.

  
So by the time that lunch rolled around, Clark was deep in full-scale pout. Chloe had  
shooed him out of the Torch office, citing that if he was going to suck every bit of joy out  
of her existence, then he could do it elsewhere. Pete was out sick that day. And  
inevitably, Clark had wandered outside the school, around the red brick until he'd seen  
Lana's familiar profile, sitting in the shade of a tree.

  
"Hey," he said, remarkably comfortable.

  
Lana smiled, pink and soft from her perch on the grass. "Hey, Clark."

  
She looked perfect there, sitting in the midst of all the blossoming life of spring in a pink  
shirt and denim skirt. Lana was simply pretty, simply herself, and that's what Clark liked  
about her so much: simple. Lana was easy for him to understand, easy on the eyes, easy  
on his overtaxed mind.

  
She patted the ground next to herself and he flopped down, sighing.

  
"You seem somber," she commented lightly.

  
Clark smirked; _everyone_ was tossing around SAT words. He shrugged in reply.

  
"Want to talk about it?" she asked.

  
He sighed. And yeah, Clark _did_. "I haven't seen Lex in nearly a week," he admitted.

  
Lana couldn't hide her smirk. "Could you sound like a teenaged girl _any_ more, Clark?"

  
He frowned and narrowed his eyes at her. "Says the girl who wears pink perpetually," he  
shot back, the voice snotty and vaguely familiar. It took him half a moment of staring  
into Lana's surprised face to recognize that the snippy tone was a directly lifted from one  
of the conversations he'd overheard between Lex and Vivian. It was never any secret that  
Clark had a sarcastic side, too; he just hadn't ever seen it manifest with Lana.

  
She raised her eyebrows. "Touche," she finally murmured. "Why haven't you just  
dropped by? Doesn't he still buy produce from your family?"

  
Clark made a sound that was suspiciously close to a whine. "Yes."

  
And that was the point.

  
Whatever had happened between Lex and Vivian, it had obviously put Lex in a bad state,  
one in which he seemed to really _realize_ that he was a CEO of a corporation, the  
employer of 4000 people, and no longer the disaffected scion of a multibillionaire or the  
always-available friend to a teenaged boy. Something had clicked in Lex's head, like the  
last pieces of a large, abstract puzzle, and it had told Lex that he needed to shape the hell  
up, because it wasn't just his life anymore.

  
...Which led to Lex politely begging off any phone conversations with Clark, actually  
listening to Vivian, working his very hardest to make his dreams come true.

  
"You're working too much, Lex," Clark had said a few days ago. And he'd never admit it  
to Lana, but he'd actually been twirling the phone cord around his finger, half out of  
nervous habit, half out of plain nervousness to have finally caught Lex on the phone.

  
And Lex, that logical bastard, had only laughed tiredly and said, "Not true, Clark. In fact,  
I think I haven't worked hard _enough_ in the past. I could give you an extended lecture  
on Alexander the Great and Macedonia and the stock market, but I think you probably  
have homework. I know I have a conference call, so - "

  
"Lex," he'd interrupted desperately, ignoring the voice of his dignity wailing in the  
background for him to _unroll his dick_. "If - are you mad at me?"

  
There'd been a long silence before Lex had sighed affectionately. "Clark, I'm just busy,  
you know that, right?" Clark had nodded, and even though Lex couldn't see through  
phones and definitely not across Kansas farmland, he'd gone on to say, "Good," and hung  
up like Clark _wasn't_ losing his mind on the other end of the line.

  
"So?" Lana persisted. "Why don't you just go and visit him?"

  
"The same reason that we shouldn't be friends to begin with!" Clark growled, surprised  
by the irritation in his own voice. Lana looked taken aback, and stayed silent and Clark  
ranted. "I mean, Lex _Luthor_. Heir to the Luthor empire, drives expensive cars with  
_gloves_, lives in a Scottish castle moved to Smallville brick by brick. Lex Luthor who  
started his own corporation when he was twenty-one and who really, honestly, Lana?  
Who really _is_ too busy to have a friend like me."

  
Clark sank into the grass, flat on his back and feeling spent.

  
That was the crux of the whole thing, Clark realized. He'd learned about  
biomagnification from Chloe's expose on LuthorCorp pesticides, little doses building up  
into larger problems, and it seemed oddly applicable to his situation. All the tiny, tiny  
little things that meant that he and Lex should have just been total strangers, passers-by  
instead of friends had compiled, allied themselves, written up contracts and photocopied  
them. It was only time that had brought them to the forefront, with terribly imposing  
words like "impossible," and "secrets," and "too damn young" for Clark's comfort.

  
It was very clear to Clark then that his whole friendship with Lex was just a bomb  
waiting to go off. According to his folks, Lex was after his secrets; according to the  
lewder jokes in the locker rooms, Lex was after his ass. And aside from all of that, Clark  
knew that the person _really_ in danger was Lex, since Clark was after Lex's time and  
Lex didn't have any to offer. Lex had been an inexhaustible well of energy, acceptance,  
and comfort beforehand, but that had also come with Lex's sullen disregard for the plant,  
his annoyance with his father, his family, his place in life.

  
It had all started to change, ever so subtly, and then in an explosion with the employee  
buyout, the beginnings of LexCorp, and now, venture capitalists.

  
Clark realized he _hated_ venture capitalists.

  
In fact, the whole romantic notion of the robber baron itself was a huge pain in the butt; if  
they lived in a communist country, Lex would have all the time in the _world_ to be  
friends with Clark. They could pick potatoes, salute their comrades, and Lex would have  
time to sleep, and breathe, and _Vivian_ wouldn't be calling anyone's mother. Vivian  
probably would have been up against the wall for counter-revolutionary thoughts;, or she  
would be if Clark had anything to say about it.

  
"Clark," Lana said softly, a hand on his shoulder, "has Lex ever been too busy for you?"

  
Clark pouted. "He is _now_."

  
She smiled at him, the expression was genuine. "Special situations now, Clark. You  
know that most of the people at the Talon work for him? I mean, I work for him, sort of,.  
My employees work for him, and everyone from the plant who comes into town works  
for him." She released a deep sigh. "Lex does important stuff, Clark. I guess it's just  
weird because...well, he usually never lets it show."

  
"A _week_, Lana. I've never gone a week without speaking to my friends before."

  
That wasn't true, Clark knew. There'd been that one time during summer when he and  
Pete had just...seemingly had other things to do. There were no feelings of animosity or  
even annoyance; they'd simply been occupied with other things, separated for a while,  
and met back up a week before school started to do all the normal, stupid things they  
_always_ did.

  
"Lex isn't a normal guy, Clark," Lana added, her voice slightly dreamy. "He drives a  
Porsche and eats organic vegetables and runs a fertilizer plant."

  
Clark turned to look at Lana with new eyes. "You've thought about this."

  
She blushed, terribly red, and Clark got a horrible and sudden suspicion.

  
"You ought to try poetry, Clark," Lex had mentioned offhandedly once, "Lana seems to  
like rhymes. I've got books in the library, if you want. We can bastardize something  
over dinner." Clark suddenly got a sinking pit in his stomach and _knew_ why Lex knew  
that Lana was a sucker for poetry. He didn't over think the fiery, hot possessive scream  
in his head, because it was too complicated and had to be approached from two  
directions: he loved Lana Lang, so Lex couldn't have her; he _needed_ Lex because Lex  
was his best friend, and Lana had better damn well keep her paws to herself.

  
Lana was pretty and popular and _everyone_ loved her; Lex was the only person that  
seemed to be fairly immune. Clark was an only child and a farm kid; not having any  
competition and having nothing to _have_ was a bad combination, and Clark admitted it:  
he was selfish with his things. He didn't like to share. Lex was his friend, and while  
Clark _wanted_ other people to _like_ Lex, he didn't want them taking him away.

  
Which brought Clark back to the problem at hand: "away."

  
"Lana...do you..." Clark started, "have a _crush_ on Lex?"

  
"No! Clark!" she protested. "You know I like you," she added shyly. "I know...I know  
I'm taking a long time to come around and... But I can't just let it go. It's like after my  
parents died, Clark; Whitney was _important_ even if he was...." She seemed to make up  
her mind. "You _know_ I like you, Clark."

  
The pit in his stomach widened. Clark remembered that tone. It was the same one he  
used to use when people questioned him about his feelings for Lana. Negations were  
always on his lips, but deep inside, the answer was a very clear "yes."

  
It would explain a lot. Why Lana always seemed so cheerful and bright around Lex.  
Why she got angry with him more easily than normal business associates would, as if she  
was passing a moral judgment. Why _his_ drinks always had more whipped cream than  
anyone else's, and more sprinkles, and definitely came with a larger smile. And Clark  
had always _wondered_ why Lana seemed incapable of going through any of the Talon's  
paperwork on her own, why _Lex_ always had to be there.

  
Lex and..._Lana_?

  
"Right," he finally said, and the skepticism showed, he knew.

  
Lana bit her lip. "Clark..."

  
Clark sighed, tamped down obvious temporary insanity, and said, "See you later."

  
He stood up, brushed off his jeans, and headed to his seventh period class.

*****

  
Clark spent a lot of time failing Precalculus. A lot.

  
It was the combined effects of it being a) a math class, and b) right after lunch. Clark had  
spent first quarter attempting to learn things, but had given up after Lex smirked and said  
that there was no real secret to learning trigonometry, and that a lot of it was just  
memorization of various, useless things. "It's almost entirely pointless, Clark, especially  
since there're calculators that log formulas nowadays," Lex had said. (That, of course,  
hadn't stopped him from being able to do all of the extra credit problems Clark had that  
week in class in ball point pen without ever making a mistake.)

  
Be that as it may, Clark didn't hate math. Not really. It was a subject, numbers and  
variables, and there wasn't anything tangible to hate.

  
Their math teacher was too bland to be considered a target.

  
At any rate, it gave him time to think, which was sort of a perk. Sort of. Clark spent a lot  
of time writing things down he'd never understand, and thinking about Psychology.

  
The Hatfield-Berscheid experiments had _ruined_ his life, and he hoped that Hatfield and  
Berscheid were very happy about that. Not only had they destroyed Clark's innocent,  
pure love for Lana Lang and polluted it with doubt and mired it with questionable intent,  
it also made him really..._uneasy_ about...Lex.

  
For reasons that Clark hadn't quite worked out just yet.

  
Finally, the bell rang and Clark made his way into the hall, distracted, ducking people left  
and right and making no eye-contact. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He just wanted to  
think, and to run down to Luthor manor and play a game of pool, have everything go  
back to the way it was before.

  
That was the other thing. Everything was changing.

  
He wasn't okay with that one, either.

*****

  
Clark reevaluated his immediate dismissal of Lana's "teenaged girl" comment when he  
saw the flash of silver-white just outside of Smallville High School. The big, stupid  
smile on his face got bigger with every step he took and he just _knew_ he looked like an  
idiot, bolting toward his best friend's car like they hadn't seen each other in years.

  
He was about four feet away when Lex looked up from the steering wheel, flashed Clark  
a smile, and stepped out of the car, all in one smooth, liquid motion. Lex moved like  
water flowed, around things, over things, never stumbling.

  
And then Clark took pause, just a brief hitch in his step when he realized something.

  
Oh, sure, Clark had always understood on a clinical level that Lex was attractive. After  
all, Lana had giggled over the proclamation "Metropolis' Most Eligible Bachelor" on the  
cover of Metropolis Magazine, cut it out, and framed it. (Much to Lex's malcontent, it  
still hung behind the counter of the Talon. Clark had smirked at the small, handwritten  
caption: Our Fearless Leader. Lex was not amused.) Lex drove shiny cars, lived in a big  
house, drank brandy and enjoyed ancient history, was sensitive, comfortable, and only on  
this side of undressed. Clark had always had the really _strange_ feeling that Lex was  
mostly-naked, and it was probably because Lex always seemed so flawless in everything  
he wore, everything he did, as if fabric didn't crinkle for him.

  
But Lex, leaning against the side of an Aston Martin, casual, tired smile on his face,  
sunglasses propped on his nose, and arms crossed was...

  
And everything just got more confusing.

  
"Hey there, stranger," Lex called out, his voice familiar and smooth and dark.

  
Clark managed a smile between the blinding flashes of realization. "Hey, Lex." Paused  
for a minute to mentally slap himself in the face a couple of times. "What are you doing  
here? I thought you were swamped at the castle?"

  
Lex smirked, and jerked his head toward the drivers side. "Hop in, I'll explain."

  
Clark did, jogging over and sliding into the familiar cabin of Lex's car, Lex's space. It  
smelled like leather and expensive linen pants and the faint scent of Lex's cologne.

  
And God, just because a really rich guy in a great car who was well dressed picked him  
up outside of his school in front of all the kids in Smallville didn't mean that Clark was  
getting a really delicious thrill out of it. He could see everyone gawking and pointing,  
whispering. "Five dollars says they're doing it," Clark could imagine them saying.

  
He wasn't melting; he wasn't ecstatic. _Really_.

  
Lex started the car, and they were driving, flying down and away leaving a crowd of  
students who thought that Lex was something scary, untouchable, or unwanted behind,  
just where Clark needed them to be.

  
"Vivian let you out to play?" Clark asked as Lex put on a CD. SR-71 was blasting in the  
car, full of middle-class angst, and Clark would remember it for when Lex attempted to  
deny that he was still sort of a teeny-bopper.

  
"Vivian is on her way back to Metropolis, and a substance abuse clinic, if I have anything  
to say about it. I've never seen anyone drink that much whiskey that fast," Lex yelled  
over the music, his voice still even. "I can't help but feel guilty for wearing so much  
purple despite her best efforts."

  
Clark laughed, loud and bright and easier than he'd laughed all week. "It's your favorite  
color, Lex. She should have known better."

  
Lex nodded thoughtfully. "Valid point."

  
Clark cleared his throat. "So you saw the venture capitalists?"

  
"Graham Robbins and Norton Pryce have," Lex said, and he sounded giddy, "conceded  
that LexCorp's designs in the future of aerodynamics as well as medical bioscience  
looked extremely good. And, as such, they've sunken a truly obscene amount of money  
into my coffers." Clark's mouth fell open. "I'm going to squeal like a little girl, Clark,  
but I'm not going to do it in front of my staff." Lex turned to look at him, all bright eyes  
and thrill, before asking, "Know of any deserted locals?"

  
And wasn't _that_ an invitation for Clark's confused mind to say something that would  
make him feel ambiguous? As if the odd half-thoughts from his brief stint on red  
kryptonite didn't set him ill at ease enough already.

  
"Uh," Clark said intelligently, "we could go. Um."

  
No, there really wasn't. Smallville, in all its sprawling farmland, lacked somewhere  
where there would be zero consequence. Every inch of it was probably watched by one  
gossip-monger or the other, one society columnist out stalking the Luthors or some friend  
of Clark's parents.

  
Lex smirked. "I thought as much. Today's Friday, right?"

  
"Yes, why?" Clark shot Lex a curious look, the uncomfortably comfortable proximity  
fading into the background of his thoughts.

  
Lex's smirk stayed firmly in place, and he dropped his foot on the gas pedal with  
abandon.

  
"We're going to Metropolis. You and me, Clark."

  
Clark's heart fluttered at that, and he didn't even bother to try and explain it away.

  
"But," he started, "you - you're busy, and - paperwork."

  
Lex laughed, and drove _faster_, screaming past downtown Smallville, narrowing  
avoiding a truck parked too far from the sidewalk. Clark thought he saw Lana standing  
on the curb, a surprised look in her eyes as Clark and Lex went by. Some part of his  
Neanderthal brain grunted in approval.

  
"Yes, there's paperwork, Clark, but that can wait. You act as if I never leaned to  
prioritize," Lex scolded.

  
"So, to show your priorities, you're kidnapping me?" Clark responded. He couldn't keep  
the giggle out of his voice, and there was no point in doing it, anyway. Lex was in a  
fabulous mood; LexCorp had just gotten major funding for all of those things that Lex  
worked so hard for. And Adult Lex seemed to be taking a temporary breather for 'Lex  
Luthor Why Yes, That _Is_ Another Shiny Phallic Object' to come out and play.

  
"Absolutely, Clark," Lex deadpanned. "How else will I start my journey toward fulfilling  
my destiny? I've got to start becoming a criminal mastermind _somehow_."

  
Clark snorted. "I _hardly_ think stealing farmboys for the afternoon is criminal."

  
Lex swerved in the middle of the road, and Clark hung on tightly as they finally righted  
themselves back into the correct lane, and Lex looked like he could _breathe_ again.

  
There was a long, long silence before Lex started laughing, at first trying to muffle the  
sound and then giving in to it. His eyes were crinkled and his mouth turned up, laughing  
like a little kid or a less important person. Laughing like he was happy.

  
"Sometimes, you really astound me, Clark," Lex said.

  
Clark smiled nervously. "What's so funny?"

  
"Stealing farmboys, Clark?" Lex prodded. "That's illegal in _so many ways_ that you're  
far, far too young to be told about."

  
Clark frowned, really tired of being too young to get Lex's jokes. "I'm seventeen, Lex.  
And I'm sure whatever you're abducting _this_ farmboy to do, it won't be anywhere  
_near_ as illegal as..." He trailed off.

  
There was a long, terrible pause.

  
Between careening down the Kansas freeway, cows and corn on both sides of them, Lex's  
laughter, and Clark in the driver's side feeling mortified, it was becoming apparent that  
Clark was missing something big.

  
So he thought over what he'd said.

  
Right. So.

  
Clark fumbled for the door handle and was determined to throw himself out into the  
straggling traffic. A Porsche couldn't kill him, but maybe a semi would do the trick, and  
lucky him, there was a LuthorCorp big rig coming up the road. Oh, wasn't _that_ irony  
utterly delicious.

  
But Lex's smooth hand was grabbing at his own, and Lex was still laughing, saying,  
"Don't overreact, Clark. You have - " laugh "- to admit that that sounded _bad_."

  
"Oh. God. I'm so sorry, Lex. I didn't mean for it to come out that way," Clark muttered.

  
He just _knew_ that reading all that porn online was going to get him in trouble one day  
or another. And he was going to _kill Pete_ for daring him to watch that skinflick, since  
of _course_ Clark would stumble upon the innocent farmboy one and have it pollute his  
mind for the rest of all eternity.

  
"Of course you didn't, Clark," Lex said thinly. "And for future reference? Anytime  
anyone male does _anything_ with a seventeen year old boy, it's illegal."

  
"Like driving in a car?" Clark said innocently, waiting for Lex's annoyed-cum-amused  
look, which came right on time, and more amused than annoyed that day.

  
"Funny, Clark. My eighteenth birthday present was my sealed juvie file. Believe it or  
not, I'm _not_ going to be adding to my list of rather impressive crimes," Lex said, like it  
was a normal conversation to have with one's best friend.

*****

  
They'd settled into a comfortable silence, and Clark had gotten curious and played the  
Shawn Mullins CD he found in Lex's glove compartment. They were cruising at a lessdeath  
-invitational seventy miles per hour, and listening to a slow, cigarette-smoke-andbars  
voice croon over Lex's very good sound system.

  
It was good. Really, really good.

  
"So," Lex said suddenly, changing the subject, "how's Psychology working out for you?"

  
Clark rolled his eyes. "We're done with Hatfield and Berscheid, but it's not going to get  
any better. Our next unit is Abnormal Psychology."

  
Lex changed lanes and said, "Really? I loved that."

  
"You _would_," Clark shot back sullenly. "She says that above all else, we shouldn't try  
to self-diagnose, since it would only drive us crazy."

  
"That's good advice, Clark," Lex said as they flew past the 'Now Leaving Smallville' sign  
on the side of the road. "My study partner managed to convince himself he had  
everything from schizophrenia to clinical depression by the time the semester ended."

  
Clark was curious. "You had a study partner?" he asked.

  
Something in the car tensed. "Sure, Clark," Lex started unsteadily, as shaken as his voice  
_ever_ got, "but it was mostly an excuse to get him into bed."

  
Clark turned this admission over in his head. Looked at it from all angles, and realized  
through the terrified silence in the car that Lex wasn't just telling him, Lex was asking  
permission, as if he was showing something bad he'd done. "Is this okay?" he could hear  
Lex asking, childlike and scared.

  
And since he was _Clark_, he said exactly the wrong thing.

  
"But you have all those _girlfriends_."

  
Lex leveled a flat expression at Clark.

  
"_Oh_," Clark murmured.

  
"Yes, 'oh,' Clark," Lex said, staring straight ahead. There was another break in the  
conversation, which wasn't comfortable at all, and Lex said, "Look, if you want me to  
take you back home, or if you're not okay with - "

  
"_No_!" Clark hastened to yell. "No, it's not that I'm uncomfortable. It's okay, seriously,  
Lex. It's just a bit of a surprise."

  
Lex was shaking slightly, one wouldn't be able to tell if one wasn't paying very close  
attention. But it was Lex, and Clark always watched carefully. He released a long,  
shuddering breath and said, "Surprise? You obviously don't read the society pages."

  
"I don't," Clark said stubbornly, and his friend turned to look at him in surprise.

  
They both knew why, too. Clark Kent had known Lex Luthor for four months when Lex  
made his way to the society pages again. Chloe had come into the class that day crowing,  
flashing around a newspaper, and assorted people at school would read, laugh, and refer  
back to it all day long. Clark hadn't gotten a chance to look until lunch, and then, he'd  
read "Luthor Scion Fathers Illegitimate Child!" written in bold letters. In retrospect, it  
was the Inquisitor, and Clark learned more and more every day never to believe a single  
word they published. Back then, he'd rushed to the mansion after school and seen Lex  
brooding at his desk, silent and mostly-unresponsive, staring at the phone. It took nearly  
a week for him to find out that Lex had been waiting for blood test results that he'd  
ordered as soon as news came in from Metropolis. "Truth is, Clark," Lex had admitted  
later that night, drunk on misery and vermouth, "I'm probably sterile. The doctors said  
that the meteor rock exposure mostly flushed my chances of fathering children down the  
crapper." Clark had stared, felt all the blood drain out of his face, and then, found that a  
really ugly sort of hate was building up in his chest, guilt and anger and the need for  
revenge. "I mean," Lex had gone on, "I _know_ intellectually that baby couldn't have  
been mine, Melissa really was an incredible slut, but..." He hadn't said another word, and  
threw back another glass before asking Clark if he could be alone for a while.

  
So Clark made a point to throw away the society pages every single week, never bought  
the Inquisitor, and if Chloe tried to read him any rumors about Lex, she'd get stared  
down.

  
All of that was peripheral, though, because Lex looked like he was blushing.

  
"You're too good for me, Clark," he murmured.

  
Metropolis, 250 miles, Clark saw and smiled. "Thanks for telling me, Lex."

  
The two boys looked at one another for a moment, and contented themselves with a grin.

*****

  
"I can't _believe_ that we're doing this," Clark lectured.

  
Lex had his back turned to him, and said imperiously, "Look, Clark, while I can admit  
that their nefarious business practices are cutthroat and worthy of admiration, I'm not  
going to pay four dollars for a bag of air. The combined worth of all the soda syrup and  
soda water used to make a day's worth of Coke is probably less than the cost of one  
supersized drink."

  
"You drive an _Aston Martin_, Lex," Clark insisted. "You live in a _castle_. You have a  
masseuse and you...you...buy people trucks for no good reason!"

  
"You saved my life," Lex said breezily. "Plenty good reason."

  
Clark rolled his eyes. He wasn't going to win this one, but he had to try. "Lex, they have  
rules against this. It's written on a sign right over concessions _every time_."

  
They were standing in the snack aisle of a gas station and Lex was systematically  
cataloguing all the different kinds of sour candies available. He'd already put in a basket  
a box of Sour Patch Kids, and was now seriously considering Sweet Tarts. There was  
also a six-pack of Cherry Pepsi. Clark didn't want to even _think_ about how they were  
going to sneak _those_ into the theater, especially since when he'd asked Lex about it, his  
friend had gotten an uncomfortably mischievous expression in his eyes.

  
"Clark, I'm not going to whore my bank account out to The Man."

  
Clark choked on a laugh, picking up package of Twizzlers. "_The Man_? Lex!"

  
"Yes, Clark, The Man," Lex said, hiding a laugh. "Hasn't anyone ever warned you about  
the Establishment, Clark?"

  
"Lex, you're _insane_."

  
"They warned me about the Establishment _a lot_ when I was younger," Lex said  
thoughtfully. "I mean, television, movies, Ferris Bueller. We all rebelled, Clark."

  
Clark made a derisive noise, taking in Lex's pressed shirt, black cashmere jacket, and  
Prada shoes. He _was_ the Establishment. "And _how_, Mr. Rebellion."

  
Lex looked down at himself and smirked, self-deprecating. "I didn't say we all _won_."

  
Clark laughed and Lex asked him if he was ready. "There're movie theaters in Smallville,  
too," Clark had pointed out half an hour ago. "Yeah, but we can't sit in the back row and  
disrupt people who are trying to have sex in Smallville," Lex had said simply. Clark had  
made mention of Lex's dirty mind, and how maybe this afternoon abduction was criminal  
after all, contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Lex had only flashed Clark an  
unrepentant expression and kept on driving.

  
The tangle of contradictions that was Lex was becoming clearer. Sure, he was an adult,  
mostly, a CEO, a Responsible Person, and had obligations, but Lex was more than that:  
Lex was also buying snacks and sneaking them into the theater because he was too cheap  
to get them at concessions; Lex was making fun of the teenagers making out in the dark;  
Lex was bad taste in candy and great taste in clothes. Lex was bisexual, and apparently,  
not so proud of it. It wasn't like there was a limit to facets of personality, and Lex had  
always liked being different.

  
And Clark found that he liked all of them: every edge, every side, every sparkle and shine  
and cutting-brightness that comprised all of Lex's different angles. Especially since it  
took very little for Lex to shift from one side to another in Clark's presence, from  
Working Lex to Just Lex, which Clark had always maintained was the coolest version.  
Despite the immutable science geek that Just Lex tended to morph into, Just Lex also  
knew the _stupidest_ trivia and the _best_ pranks. Just Lex also 'borrowed' his best  
friends for the afternoon, drove them three and a half hours away, revealed his sexuality,  
and promised movies and junk food.

  
"Clark? You ready?" Lex asked.

  
Clark smiled. "Yeah," he said, and got in the car.

  
So this was change, too, this recognition that Just Lex now had companions. LexCorp  
was important, and as much as Clark wanted to deny it, LexCorp Lex was _more_  
important to Smallville than Clark's favorite Lex. Which he could probably deal with, he  
just needed to make a compromise. And have Lex's solemn word that if Lana ever hit on  
him, he would pretend to be _absolutely oblivious_.

  
He was basking in it, the easy parts of all of it. Being close and being happy and having  
Lex happy for what seemed like the first time in a long time.

  
"Here," Lex said, handing Clark the six pack. "Stick those in your jacket."

  
"You're kidding," Clark said.

  
"Luthor's never kid," Lex commented. "Go on."

  
"They're _cold_," Clark argued. Not that it mattered to him.

  
"Not that it matters to you," Lex said casually. While Clark flushed and fought _hard_ to  
continue breathing without chanting apologies, screaming and running in terror, or  
simply turning to dust on the spot, Lex said, "I'm not stupid, Clark. And stop panicking."

  
Clark nodded, suddenly feeling insanely calm. "Okay."

  
They were right in front of the movie theater now, and Lex was putting on his blinker,  
ready to turn into the overflowing parking lot. He was also eyeing the handicapped  
space, which made Clark both thrilled and vaguely uncomfortable.

  
It was surreal, to have _two_ revelations in one afternoon: bisexual, and freak.

  
And the great part: no one cared, it seemed, on either end.

  
Lex glanced at the six-pack he'd dropped in Clark's lap. "So stick them in your jacket."

  
Clark laughed. "_Lex_!"

  
"We'll tell them you're pregnant," Lex assured him, and parked in the only available  
handicap space, headlights illuminating the "Minimum Fine $100" sign.

*****

  
"Dissociative disorder," Lex whispered.

  
Clark groaned. "Lex. No more psychology, _please_."

  
"It's interesting, Clark," his friend replied, popping a Sour Patch Kid into his mouth.

  
"Yeah? Well, I still haven't forgiven you for getting me to watch this movie," Clark shot  
back, annoyance hedging in his voice as he looked around the theater.

  
The theater wasn't actually full, per se. There were groups of people all over, huddled  
together with their friends. So Clark didn't feel terrible about talking and generally  
making himself a movie nuisance because everyone else was doing it, too. The usher  
mentioned that it was the second month that the movie had been out, so Clark wasn't  
surprised it wasn't packed.

  
At the door, feeling like an idiot with a six pack of cola shoved down his jacket and  
candy he could _hear_ crinkling in his pockets, Clark had realized Luthors really _didn't_  
kid as Lex had put his arm around him, pasted a big, stupid smile to his face, and said  
they were expecting. "She's very sensitive," Lex had said simply, pushing them past the  
skeptical usher. "She did professional sports for a while, the steroids were awful. Very  
bad." Clark couldn't really think outside of the screaming need to injure Lex badly. They  
were very lucky that there weren't any vulture reporters hanging around, because if the  
Inquisitor had been anywhere within range, there would be a full page spread about Lex  
Luthor, his incredibly ugly girlfriend, and their impossible love child. The first thing  
Clark had done after sitting down was punch Lex soundly in the arm.

  
Illegitimate imaginary pregnancy aside, there was the _other_ thing.

  
"This is a _chick flick_, Lex!" Clark insisted.

  
"That's based on your Representative Heuristic," Lex said, not taking his eyes off the  
screen. "You take a few pieces of information you recognize: the crying women, the  
romantic subplot, and the comedic nature of them, and deduce that it's a "chick flick,"  
when really, this is just a comedy. Even in the classic definition of the word."

  
Clark stared at Lex for a minute. "I'm going to hit you again, Lex. Really hard."

  
"You will not," Lex retorted, eyes still glued to the screen, still popping candy like an  
addict. "Look, that lawyer's coming back."

  
Clark turned. He admitted it: the only part of "Bringing Down the House" that he was  
actually enjoying was the young lawyer in it. There was something vaguely familiar  
about the guy, the way his body moved and how he talked.

  
"He looks familiar," Clark finally said.

  
Lex shrugged. "I met him at a party in Hollywood once. Nice guy."

  
Clark leaned in to say, "Seriously?"

  
"Seriously," Lex replied. "Michael something."

  
Clark shrugged. "He's kind of hot."

  
Lex whipped around to stare at Clark, wide-eyed. Clark debated whether it had come out  
of his mouth simply because he was trying to scare Lex, or if it was some sort of  
Freudian slip, whether or not that was still a valid psychological concept.

  
And really? That's what had started this whole problem to begin with, Psychology. One  
semester ago, Clark had been content, fairly happy with his life, simply and completely  
head over heels for Lana Lang, girl next door, and had a best friend who was the very  
definition of cool. Two quarters of Dr. Polanski's psychology later, Clark was starting to  
see cracks in the foundation of his affection for Lana, was confused and slightly attracted  
to the best friend, and was now obviously suffering some advanced form of encephalitis.

  
It was a long time before Lex rolled his eyes. "Very cute, Clark," he said.

  
Clark managed a weak smile, but didn't say a word.

*****

  
"How did you know about Lana?" Clark asked suddenly, feeling the warmth from the  
Metropolis night against his theater-chilled arms. The movie had ended twenty minutes  
ago; it had taken that long for them to reach a gas station in the last rush of traffic.

  
Lex, who was leaning idly against the side of his car, waiting for the tank to fill, looked at  
him oddly. "Well, Clark," he drawled, "there was this accident, on a bridge? There was a  
roll of barbed wire and a teenager with a messiah complex involved, and somewhere  
along the way, I got dragged into the tawdry soap opera that is As The World Turns For  
Lana La - "

  
"_No_," Clark interrupted, "about the _poetry_."

  
Lex raised his eyebrows in time to the "click." He turned around to pull the nozzle out,  
and crazily, a thought flit through Clark's head. Lex pumped his own gas. It seemed  
strange that Lex would do menial labor. That would be like Lex cleaning his own castle  
or doing his own laundry or cooking his own meals, none of which seemed feasible.

  
"Well, one of Ms. Lang's many stalkers sent her that letter, I remember, and I read it  
before I just quoted a few lines to her myself," Lex said, pressing his credit card into the  
waiting slot and pressing a few buttons before turning back to Clark. "She seemed fairly  
receptive. Why?"

  
Clark's hand was fisted, nails digging into his own palm. He was upset, terribly so, but  
the really problematic part was that he couldn't tell at _whom_. Was he angry with Lex  
for charming Lana? Or at Lana for having a crush on Lex? He couldn't _really_ be mad  
at Lex for charming Lana, since obviously, there was no intent to do so (right?); and he  
couldn't _really_ be mad at Lana, since, well, _everyone_ seemed to have a crush on Lex.  
The way that Lex walked, talked, and breathed just asked for it.

  
"I think she likes you," Clark managed.

  
Lex looked shocked, and it took him a second to collect his card and slip it back into his  
alligator-skin wallet. A few more seconds passed and a lazy smile came to his face.

  
"I think you're probably reading too much into the poetry, Clark," he said reassuringly.

  
Clark walked around to the driver's side door and slipped inside as Lex tucked himself in  
and buckled his seatbelt, pulling on his driving gloves. Lex's driving gloves were black  
leather, buttery soft. They smelled like Lex's skin, which smelled vaguely of rain and  
sophistication. Clark _always_ paid attention, and Lex had let him drive the Aston  
Martin once, on the condition that Clark wore the gloves and was merciful on the  
transmission. He remembered the feeling of his hands surrounded by leather, cool  
around the fingertips but warm in the palms, and he imagined it was like pressing hands  
to Lex's, like something intimate.

  
"Yeah," Clark admitted, looking at Lex's hands on the steering wheel. "But what if I'm  
not? What if, one day, I walk into the Talon and she's flirting with you?" What was  
unspoken was: What if you're flirting back?

  
Now _Lex_ made the derisive noise, and they pulled back into the congested Metropolis  
traffic. "Trust me, Clark. She's not my type. Don't worry about it." He sounded  
annoyed.

  
Clark's chest tightened. "I wasn't...I wasn't accusing," he explained. "It's that - "

  
"Don't _worry_ about it so much, Clark," Lex murmured, looking left and right before  
switching lanes abruptly. "Honestly, Clark. Dating Lana is _definitely_ not on my  
agenda, and neither is going to prison for statutory rape."

  
Clark shut his mouth and nodded. Lex was right.

  
"Now, be useful and tell me what we're doing next or I quiz you on various psychological  
disorders," Lex said.

  
Clark rolled his eyes. "You know, it really worries me that you still _remember_ all this  
stuff. Shouldn't you be saving your brainspace for more important things? Like, oh, I  
don't know, LexCorp business, or the plant?"

  
Lex made a disapproving sound. "The brain is a muscle, Clark. You have to exercise it  
to keep it in top condition. Besides," Lex said casually, "I've always found it useful to  
know a bit of psychology when dealing with prospective clients and business partners."

  
"Mind-melding them?" Clark said, and waited for the smile.

  
Lex smirked. "'Mind-meld'? Oh, _Clark_."

  
"I could eat," Clark said out of nowhere, a big grin on his face now.

  
Lex turned to the side at a red light, looking Clark up and down thoughtfully. It made his  
face flush red to be regarded like that, and he had to fight the visceral urge to fidget under  
Lex's careful observation: it felt like he was being consumed.

  
"Well," Lex finally said, "you're not _dressed_ for any of the more complicated places..."

  
"Hey!" he protested, blushing dark red. He felt like enough of a hayseed sometimes  
without Lex making fun of him, too.

  
"Complicated meaning tie and jacket required, Clark," Lex added, the apology was silent.

  
A few moments passed before Lex's face lit up. "I know the perfect place." Lex cast  
Clark wicked look before asking, "Do you like Moroccan food, Clark?"

  
He shrugged. "Never had it, Lex."

  
Lex smiled, and not for the first time, Clark thought it looked very much like a shark.

  
"_Perfect_."

*****

  
"There are prevailing theories that _all_ psychological disorders are imaginary, too,  
Clark," Lex said between fingerfuls of fragrant rice. "There are at least two psychologists  
who basically chalk up any disorder to being a big whiner."

  
The restaurant was small, smoky, and warm. There was a low din all around the room,  
sounds of small groups laughing. The walls were a comfortable, burnt-tan color, and  
most of the light provided was through tinted lamps, casting an orange glow everywhere.  
At the next table over, four Metropolis University students were complaining about their  
Physics professor. Clark and Lex were sitting cross-legged on the floor at a low table,  
and enormous plates of rice and meats had appeared for them - sans cutlery. Lex had  
simply said, "I _told_ you to wash your hands carefully, Clark. Dig in." So they did, and  
Clark discovered that there was an entire _world_ outside of tacos and eggrolls, and he  
loved it there.

  
Plus - the added bonus of seeing Lex eat with his hands.

  
"Every disorder?" Clark said, unbelieving, and Lex nodded. "What about people who try  
to _kill_ themselves over whatever they have? They can't say that's being whiny."

  
Lex leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "They do. And that's why mostly no  
one subscribes to that theory anyway."

  
"Weird," Clark muttered.

  
Lex shrugged. "Psychology is weird. Homosexuality, up until 1973, was listed as a  
psychological disorder. And behaviorists and cognitive psychologists thought that it  
could be treated through therapy and medication, too."

  
Clark winced. "That's awful."

  
"Not really," Lex said thoughtfully. "I mean, people tend to fear what they don't  
understand, or something new. It's not a very _enlightened_ response, but I can't say that  
the good-natured intent to _fix_ whatever they perceive is wrong is necessarily evil."

  
Clark frowned and wiped his fingers on a napkin. "I'm sure the gay people they tried to  
'treat' back then didn't agree."

  
"The gay people back then probably thought it was something bad, too," Lex responded.  
"America is founded on Puritanism. Most of them were probably terrified by their sexual  
inclinations. There's a reason being gay is equated with being closeted, Clark."

  
Clark sighed.

  
He could sympathize. The daily fear of being figured out was very real. There were  
always moments, retreads after mindless actions throughout classes and afternoons at the  
Talon or at Lex's where Clark would feel himself shift into panic, mind kicking into  
overdrive at whether or not his latest faux pas or lie had revealed him for what he really  
was: a freak. Yeah, Clark could sympathize. After all, people back then (and even now,  
in Smallville) thought that homosexuality was disgusting and repugnant; and the Weekly  
World News always had and always _would_ treat aliens the same way.

  
It suddenly became overwhelmingly important that Lex not think of him the same way.

  
"What would be your response?" Clark asked.

  
Lex blinked. "To someone coming out of the closet?"

  
"Yeah. What would you say? I mean, if it was someone you knew?" Clark asked.

  
Lex wouldn't..._abandon_ him, would he? After all, Lex was open-minded. Lex was a  
_scientist_. And unfortunately for Clark, that was half the problem:; Lex was a scientist.  
"I want to tell someone, Mom, badly," he'd admitted before. And then his mother had  
launched in a rational and logical dissertation on Why Telling Lex Was Tantamount To A  
Death Sentence, and tops was that Lex Is A Scientist - Do You Want To Be A  
Government Experiment?

  
Lex rolled his eyes. "Clark. I'm bisexual. Really _think_ about that."

  
Clark blushed all the way up to his hairline. There wasn't really a point to doing it, but  
his body had the funniest idea of what was a threat to his livelihood. One day, it would  
figure out that Lex's smile and Lana's breasts were _not_ going to attack him.

  
It was all mixed signals. Always mixed signals. That wasn't what he'd meant at all, but  
he could hardly explain _that_ to Lex; he'd come dangerously close already.

  
So he filed the moment away, another terror for a harrowing collection of them, another  
drop in the ocean, another anxiety that would wake him at night sometimes, bathed in  
cold sweat, in the dark and suddenly, very much alone in every way that mattered.

  
"Right," he managed. "Never mind. Stupid question."

  
He was determined not to depress himself that evening. More and more frequently, time  
with Lex was turning into a commodity, one over which investors from Japan, venture  
capitalists, coffee-shop managers, psychotic fathers, and small town farmboys had to  
fight for. Clark had won for the evening, and he wasn't going to waste it.

  
"Just a little bit, yeah," Lex said, grinning, letting him off the hook.

  
Lex was wiping his fingers clean when the waitress came up to refill their water glasses.  
Clark watched in fascination as Lex eyed her, a slow, purely sexual smile on Lex's face  
as he started a conversation. The waitress didn't even blush, just flirted right back before  
smiling brightly and ran one hand down her neck, fingers dipping along her collarbone.

  
Clark had watched Lex flirt before, but it was still strange.

  
Especially now, knowing that Lex would do this...with a man, too.

  
Strange and oddly fitting all the same.

  
What was terribly out of place and totally inexplicable, though, was the roar of sudden  
jealousy that rose like bile in the back of Clark's throat. It took his defense mechanisms  
all of two seconds to kick into high gear and rationalize it all away. Lex was Clark's best  
friend, and they hadn't had any time together in a week. He hadn't blown off chores,  
listened to his father lecture him about responsibility and the Luthor family debauchery  
on a pay phone in a movie theater for ten minutes so that some two-bit waitress at a  
Moroccan restaurant could hold a monopoly over Lex's time and attention.

  
So. Clark cleared his throat. And glared, liberally.

  
The waitress glanced over at Clark in surprise, as if first noticing him. She looked him  
up and down before cocking an eyebrow and pursing her lips. With a careless excuse and  
a shift of her hips, she was gone again and Lex turned back to Clark, curious.

  
Lex didn't say anything, but Clark could tell he wanted to.

  
Clark cleared his throat and looked around nervously. "So, you come here a lot?"

  
Lex gave him the, 'I'm letting you off easy, _again_' look, but said, "Not since I was at  
MetU, no. It's five minutes walking distance from the social sciences building."

  
Clark hadn't known that. "You went to MetU? I thought you got your undergraduate  
degree from Princeton."

  
The MetU students at the next table settled down, and one of them turned a curious eye to  
their neighbors, though Clark was fairly certain that he was the only one who'd noticed.  
Lex had a general tendency to stop talking about himself whenever people who would  
potentially go on the record and destroy him in the newspapers were listening. Clark  
thought it was paranoia, and Lex mentioned an old clich about how it wasn't paranoia if  
they were really out to get you.

  
"I did," Lex said smoothly. "But that was after I was transferred there."

  
"Why'd you transfer? Didn't you like Metropolis University?" Clark asked, taking mental  
notes. College was looming ever closer, and aside from Chloe's really _interesting_  
scholarship searches, Clark was more and more temped by the campuses themselves, and  
in particular, Metropolis U's open campus and journalism program.

  
Lex actually looked embarrassed, a faint red came to his pale cheeks. "Well, I was sort  
of...asked to leave. By the chemistry department. There was an..._incident_." Clark  
fought hard to keep a snort of laughter hidden.

  
The people the next table over didn't bother.

  
Lex whipped around to see and before Clark knew what had happened, one girl at the  
table, between giggles said, "You! You're Lex Luthor! The Lex Luthor who blew up  
Professor Sidel's entire lab? You're legendary!"

  
Lex flushed in earnest now. "Thank you, I guess," he said slowly.

  
Clark laughed, the students laughed, and finally, grudgingly, so did Lex.

*****

  
"What time do you have to be back home, Clark?" Lex asked, and they were flying down  
the road again.

  
The lights of Metropolis were glaringly red and orange and brilliant white, they streaked  
against the black of the evening like stars run together, and Clark was half-enchanted by  
the look. He'd always known the attraction of moving fast, but he'd usually been so  
intent on the destination he barely looked at the journey. It was cliche, he knew, but the  
world around him was beautiful as he moved far too quickly in Lex's car, as they moved  
far too quickly toward...somewhere Clark hadn't been before.

  
Home seemed very far away.

  
"Mom said to take my time, since if I let you go home, you'd probably just overwork  
yourself again," Clark said, and Lex smirked at that. "Dad said eleven."

  
The clock on the dashboard read 9:45 pm.

  
"But then again," Clark added, "Mom's probably keeping him distracted." When he was  
eight, he'd walked in on his parents, and been terrified of their bedroom ever since.  
Maybe he was growing up. Or maybe Lex and his occasionally perverse comments  
really were poisoning his mind.

  
Lex made a face. "I'm not going to think about why you're so okay with making that  
insinuation, Clark. I'm not _even_ going to think about it."

  
Clark laughed. "You were made the same way, Lex."

  
"I was _not_," Lex scowled, but it was playful. "I was a test tube baby. Or virgin birth."

  
"Virgin birth? That would imply divinity," Clark shot back.

  
Lex smiled vaguely. "With my mom, I'd almost believe that."

  
They fell silent for a moment, and Clark stared at Lex quietly. His friend was as wired as  
he'd ever been, energy coiled inside of pale parchment skin, intelligence flashing behind  
silver-blue eyes and veiled thoughtfulness. But Lex was also smiling almost dreamily,  
sent into strange, astral serenity by the mention of his mother, who he, apparently, though  
was divine, and it made Clark want to smile and hug Lex tightly to his chest to see that  
expression on his friend's face.

  
"Worship," Lex said suddenly, as if he could read Clark's mind.

  
"Worship," Clark parroted.

  
"You haven't read Equus yet, have you, Clark?" Lex asked, glancing at him from the  
corners of his eyes, still soft around the edges.

  
Clark shook his head, no. "Not yet. That's twelfth grade. And if the PTA has anything  
to say about it, it's getting banned sometime this year so I won't even have to."

  
Lex made a dissatisfied noise and muttered something about the "back 40 being the dreck  
of all literary whores." "Well, then," Lex finally said, totally audible. "Equus is  
brilliant, Clark. You have to read it. If your library burns all its copies, come to me, I  
have plenty of paraphernalia pretending to be great literature."

  
Yeah, Clark _bet_ he did. And he'd said that out loud.

  
Lex ignored it. "It's all about worship, Clark, weight with agony."

  
"I hear there's horse sex," Clark said, more to irritate Lex than anything else.

  
"It's _not horse sex_!" Lex cried, as if he'd heard that before. "It's - "

  
And Lex suddenly stopped himself and whirled about to look at Clark, despite the fact  
that they were on a fairly crowded road and driving at a respectable forty-five miles per  
hour. Which was over the speed limit anyway, not that _that_ had ever stopped Lex.  
Clark gripped at the dashboard: he was indestructible, Lex was not.

  
"You do that _just_ to annoy me, don't you?" Lex accused.

  
"Lex, the _road_," Clark pleaded, and when his friend finally complied and started  
paying attention again, he said, "Well, only sometimes."

  
Lex rolled his eyes and heaved a great sigh. "Why do I *bother," he said dramatically.

  
Clark smiled, big and bright and real like a dying sun. "Because I couldn't keep the  
truck?" Lex tensed for a moment and then the rough edges smoothed out again, as if it  
took him just a moment to catch the joke, get the affection in Clark's tone.

  
"Hey," Clark suddenly remembered. "Don't you have a penthouse?"

*****

  
Lex's penthouse, he explained, was his twenty-first birthday present from his father.

  
Clark sighed and thought of what it would be like if his dad could give him gifts like that,  
and then he remembered the consequence of it, having Lionel as a father. Clark couldn't  
even stand being in the same _room_ as the guy, much less knowing they shared  
genealogy and having to be _nice_ to him. Suddenly, books and gift certificates didn't  
sound so terrible anymore.

  
The penthouse was also on the hundred and third story of a building. Which they were  
traveling up to. In a glass-walled elevator. Which was very, very high above solid  
ground. And looked like it was utterly unsupported. Clark would have clawed at the  
walls, but it was all slick-smooth, nothing to grab hold of unless he was going to throw  
himself into Lex's arms and whimper like a little kid. And of all the reactions he could  
have, that was the most unacceptable one in Clark's mind.

  
"You okay, Clark?" Lex asked, curious.

  
He forced himself to breathe steadily. "Yeah. Just...a little bothered by heights," he  
admitted finally, sneaking a glance to check Lex's reaction.

  
"If it makes you feel any better, I hate planes," Lex said easily.

  
It did, actually, so Clark smiled bravely. "So, anyone cool on your floor?"

  
"The entire floor is mine, Clark," Lex explained. "The elevator doors are going to open  
up to my apartment. That's why we had to enter a security code on that panel before we  
could get up here." Clark nodded; he should have expected that.

  
The elevator finally stopped its ascension and the doors opened.

  
Clark took a step out, and could only gape.

  
Clark had prepared himself for possible decadence, rich silks or heavy wood like at the  
castle in Smallville. Clark had also prepared himself for sleek, icy metal and glass like  
Lex's personality seemed to imply sometimes.

  
Clark hadn't expected Lex's penthouse to be so...lived in. Especially since it wasn't.

  
They were standing on top of a low platform, broad and rectangular. To Lex's right, there  
was a small wooden table with a red bowl on top. Lex dug through is pockets and threw  
his car keys into it, casual, easy, as if he did that a lot. The platform descended into a  
large, open room. The floors were wooden, clean and fairly light, comfortable and not  
shining. There was a flat gray area rug in the center of the living room, flanked by one  
large, long couch and two loveseats, a glass coffee table in the center with six remote  
controls. There were also end tables with two matching metal lamps, books stacked  
carelessly on the available surfaces. The whole thing was on its side, so that Clark was  
looking at the back of one of the love seats, and the sofas were all facing an expanse of  
wall with an enormous flat-panel TV. A large, open doorway on the other side of the  
room gave a peek of a comfortable, honey-wood and glass kitchen. Sliding doors to the  
right of the television were thrown open to a study, with dark mahogany shelves  
overflowing with volumes and the barest hint of black plastic casing, the side of a  
computer. The wall fell away to the left of the TV and Clark assumed that if he were to  
disappear down there, he'd see a dining room, four thousand bedrooms, a gym, and a zoo.

  
"Gorgeous, isn't it?" Lex murmured.

  
He wasn't talking about his interior design.

  
Where Clark should have been facing an exposed exterior wall - Clark faced a window.  
An enormous, room-length, floor-to-ceiling window with the most exquisite view of  
Metropolis that Clark had ever seen in his life. The lights in the apartment weren't on,  
and so the darkness of the night outside continued into the room, dotted by the bright  
windows of the business district, interrupted by the gaudy neon signs from department  
stores and nightclubs. The traffic in downtown Metropolis became waves of red and  
yellow. Somewhere, in the black sky, a helicopter was zipping around, one single orange  
smear against the dark. It was an incredible sight, awe inspiring at how man scraped  
away at the edges of the infinity with cities and skyscrapers that reached to the heavens.  
Clark couldn't quite wrap his mind around it, how big and terrible and _shining_  
Metropolis really was, because he'd mostly seen it from the ground up. This was Lex's  
world, looking at everything from above. In the far corners of the sky, the last edges of  
dark blue fringed ebony, like Clark was staring into Lex's pupils, so close and so deep  
that he could only imagine the blue rims, hard and bright like Lex's mind.

  
It was like the tourist postcards they sold four for a dollar on every street corner, only  
better and more raw, alive with the ugly and amazing sides of everything.

  
Clark could only nod.

  
"I come here sometimes," Lex said softly. "Just leave the lights off at night and look."

  
"I get that," Clark whispered. This moment demanded reverence.

  
"I," Lex started awkwardly. "I wanted to show Desiree this," he finally said. "I was  
going to bring her up here."

  
Clark was suddenly and violently torn away from the view, a lighting bolt of guilt  
severing him from the moment and he whipped around to look at Lex's profile, pale and  
ghostly in the city lights. Blue eyes were black and too-white skin was nearly  
translucent; Clark wanted to reach out to Lex, tell him the truth, explain everything, make  
it hurt less.

  
"We flew," Lex said again, nervous, "over Metropolis and landed here before we drove  
out to Smallville." He didn't look at Clark. "She really loved it. All the lights. I  
promised her I'd bring her out here."

  
And Clark felt sick at that. He felt sick, and his chest hurt. He wanted to pull Lex around  
to face him, to shake his friend until he snapped out of it and yell about how Miss Atkins  
had only wanted Lex for his money, never loved him, that she was a meteor freak and the  
love was all radioactive pheromones. He wanted to make Lex stop talking, because every  
aching word out of Lex's mouth was darkening that enormous black mark against Clark  
in some universal scorebook, and Clark already knew guilt like the back of his own hand.

  
But most of all, Clark felt angry. Rage like he'd only chanced before building behind his  
eyeballs and he wanted to find Desiree and _snap her neck_ for what she'd done to Lex.

  
Clark could imagine it, too, her eyes scared and pleading were _nothing_ compared to  
Lex's voice, hollowed out, and Lex's shoulders, slumping in resignation. As if Lex  
imagined that he really _was_ destined to be alone. Like Clark wasn't going to be there,  
too, right with him the whole way.

  
Clark had never been good with words. He could make "I'm Sorry" scrambled eggs, or  
"Oops, I Screwed Up" repairs on the tractor. He knew how to make the copy for the  
Torch with paper and tape an earnest apology to explain to Chloe that he was in the  
wrong. And he could buy Pete food and watch the Three Stooges with him while Pete  
complained about his girlfriends. Clark knew different ways to say "Sorry."

  
Just not to Lex. He...hadn't done it that much, though it was probably deserved.

  
So Clark did the next best thing, what his mom always did whenever Clark felt the way  
that he thought Lex looked and -

  
Pulled Lex to his chest, without asking permission, without asking if he was holding on  
too tightly.

  
Just arms around Lex's thin shoulders, his cheek pressed the side of Lex's head, and  
breathing hard because some part of him had wanted to - _needed_ to - do this for far  
longer than Clark had realized.

  
It was all so terrible and confusing, this garbage about growing up. So Clark ignored  
everything Dr. Polanski said about psychology and Hatfield and Berscheid, wiped what  
he thought about Lana from his mind, ignored his lingering guilt over Chloe, and forgot  
_every single thing_ that Lex had said over dinner to just _breathe_.

  
Lex smelled like night air and rain and linen, clean and male and familiar.

  
Like coming home, for no reason at all.

  
But Lex's arms were wrapped around Clark's middle now, and if he didn't know any  
better, Clark would say he was crying, shoulders shaking out of exhaustion and terror and  
grief over _everything_ that Lex had held in so long that he'd almost forgotten about it. It  
was certain now, because Clark could hear Lex's hiccupping sobs though his coat and he  
could feel his shirt getting wet; Lex's hands were fisted in Clark's jacket, and he wasn't  
standing up very well, just clinging, barely upright, desperate and _so tired_.

  
And Clark just held on, waited with a terrible ache in his stomach.

  
This, Clark knew, wasn't part of the plan.

  
But that was okay, because some of the best things were unexpected.

*****

  
"Shit," Lex said, and his voice was still nasal, even after locking himself in the bathroom  
with a box of tissues and a wounded ego. "I sound like a goddamn girl."

  
"We'll tell people I made you watch 'Steel Magnolias,'" Clark said.

  
Lex stepped out of the bathroom long enough to glare. "_No one_ could make me watch  
'Steel Magnolias.'"

  
"I'll say I held you down."

  
Lex's glare turned into a scowl and Clark turned back around and grabbed randomly at  
one of the many, many remote controls that were laying on Lex's bedside table. He  
pushed at a button and a screen rolled down from the ceiling with an efficient hiss of  
sound, like a thin whip. He leaned his head back against Lex's headboard and yelled  
back, "Hey, what's this screen thing?"

  
"TV," Lex explained, slipping back to his spot in front of the bathroom vanity. "Shit.  
My eyes are still red." There was the sound of water running and then splashing.

  
When Lex's sobs had subsided and his shoulders had stopped shaking so terribly, Clark  
had asked where his bathroom was. And following Lex's sluggish movements, Clark had  
stepped through the doorway at the end of the long corridor and frozen stock-still at the  
realization he was in _Lex's bedroom_. Lex had made a beeline for the bathroom door,  
and Clark had been left there, awkwardly aware of his surroundings. Like the rest of the  
apartment, it was big, had a wall of windows, and was decorated in the key of gray-andwood.

  
Clark had decided after standing around uncomfortably for a while that if he'd said his  
first "hellos" to Lex mouth-to-mouth after a near-fatal car accident, there was nothing  
wrong with getting comfortable. So he'd kicked off his shoes, sprawled out on Lex's bed,  
and willed himself not to think about all the women who had probably been there, too.

  
"You have any frozen vegetables in your kitchen, Lex?" Clark called, fighting a losing  
battle with the remote. The television was...unrolled, but it wouldn't _turn on_.

  
There was a short pause before Lex asked, "You want to _cook_?"

  
"No! Look - frozen food over your eyes would probably bring down the puffiness, and -  
damn it! Lex, how do you turn your TV on? This thing is impossible," Clark huffed.

  
Lex apparently didn't hear Clark's complaint.

  
"My eyes are _puffy_?" Lex yelled. Each word was spoken raising an octave until  
"puffy" was nearly a screech.

  
Sometimes, Clark really wondered about exactly how _vain_ Lex was.

  
"Lex!" Clark yelled, not bothering to turn around because all he would see was Lex  
frantically examining his face, checking for abnormal volume, scowling at his own  
reflection in the mirror. "Lex - how do you work the TV?"

  
"_Puffy_!" Lex wailed, as if it were a curse word. "_Puffy_? I'll never live this down."

  
"Look - if you tell me how to turn on the TV, I swear I won't tell anyone," Clark said.

  
There was an annoyed sound from the bathroom before Clark heard a swish of expensive  
pants and Lex was suddenly next to him, snatching the remote control out of his hands.  
He went through a ridiculously complicated series of at _least_ seven buttons before he  
pressed "Power" and the screen burst into life. Lex dropped the remote into Clark's hands  
and stomped back into the bathroom, muttering to himself the whole time.

  
Clark thought it was kind of cute that the TV was turned on immediately to the Cartoon  
Network, and that a little digital reminder popped out of nowhere to say, "Justice League  
\- eight o'clock and eleven thirty" on the screen. The idea of Lex watching TV was  
foreign in and of itself, since Lex seemed so rarely to do it, but the idea of Lex watching  
cartoons was simply delicious. Clark channel-surfed idly through MTV, CNN, and CSPAN,  
watched a little bit of TLC, some of the Home and Garden channel, and chuckled  
over Iron Chef. All to the background noises of Lex's occasional yelled profanity and  
whining about how long it took for any sort of swelling to go down and how he was  
going to look like hell in the morning and really, didn't Clark know it was all his damn  
fault? Clark was the one who'd wanted to see the penthouse and then he'd gone and  
_hugged_ Lex and blah blah blah...

  
His fingers froze suddenly, and his jaw dropped.

  
The television's volume was on low, and Clark was eternally glad for that.

  
On the enormous screen, in high-definition, tremendously expensive quality, two young,  
well-muscled, very attractive men were in the throes of being...extremely agreeable with  
one another. Doggy style. And they seemed to be...quite vocal about it if their open  
mouths were any indication. Or maybe not, because Clark turned an entirely new and yet  
undiscovered shade of red when a _third_ joined them and...made good use of the man on  
the bottom and his open lips.

  
If he had to _hear_ it as well as _watch_ it, Clark was pretty sure there'd be trouble.

  
And outrageously, Lex's voice was still filtering through in between concussive shocks to  
Clark's brain and a stirring in his pants.

  
"This never happened, Clark. You understand that?"

  
One of the men was sleek, slim and well-muscled, and his tongue was pressed to the  
corner of his mouth, just on the outside, a slip of wet pink against bronze skin. Dark hair  
in bangs brushed across his forehead and Clark could see his profile, strong and lean and  
his _hips_ were...

  
"This is going to be a study in repression. Have you gotten to that yet in class? - "

  
They were just _pounding_ into the man underneath him, driving force like he'd seen in  
Pete's brother's porno movies. But those had all been girls and they'd been more soft and  
had more curves and not so much familiar skin, familiar flesh, flat and hard, and no way  
in _hell_ was Clark going to let himself get a hard-on from watching boys screw one  
another.

  
Did Lex even _know_ he had this channel? He should have warned Clark if he did. Just  
a friendly, "Hey, Clark, don't flip to channel 235, all right? There's man-sex and you're  
confused enough as it is what with being an alien and in AP Psychology, without laying  
on my bed, getting a boner and being suddenly confused about your sexual orientation."

  
" - It's really amazing the _lengths_ to which the human mind will go to - "

  
The man on the bottom was pale, and thinner than the other two, eyes closed and light,  
ginger lashes tossed pronounced shadows on his high cheekbones. He was handsome,  
and beautiful in a delicate way, but oh, so very, very naked. He was smaller and one  
long, bronze forearm cut across the angled turn of his hip to his groin where a thick fisted  
hand was -

  
Clark was having sort of a mental breakdown.

  
And he knew, _knew_ in his logical mind that he should have screamed in heterosexual  
horror and changed the channel...four _thousand_ strokes ago but God almighty, his pants  
were getting kind of uncomfortable and he did _not_ know how to interpret that turn of  
events.

  
The pale man's mouth was also occupied, opened almost grotesquely wide and Clark  
could see his tongue peek out occasionally in between swallowing and sucking and -

  
"There are some variations called fugues and - Clark? Clark?"

  
Clark's danger sense told him to change the channel.

  
But since Clark was seeing _gay porn_ for the first time _ever_ in his best friend's _bed_  
while sprouting a _hard-on the size of Manhattan_, it wasn't making much of a big  
difference.

  
"Clar - _holy shit_!"

  
Lex made a lunge for the remote and fumbled until Clark's wide-open eyes were seeing  
the Powerpuff girls instead of wide expanses of sweating flesh.

  
There was a long, tangible silence.

  
"What. Were. You. Watching?" Lex managed.

  
And Clark had obviously lost his mind because he actually said, "_You_ don't know?"

  
Lex actually laughed in amazement at that before he sort of fell into a sitting position on  
the bed, face white with shock and hands shaking. "Clark, I - " Lex laughed again, more  
relaxed this time, like he was finally getting his breath back. "You're too young for that."

  
Clark remembered his erection and sat up, crossed his legs, and tried vainly to hide it.  
Lex was a guy, he probably knew all the tricks. And post-porn hard-ons usually went  
away quickly, right? Clark _knew_ he should have watched more porn; he would be  
better prepared for situations like this! Yeah, he told himself, because accidentally  
watching men having sex on your best friend's television happens _a lot_.

  
Lex watched him for a long time before his lips twitched.

  
Clark _knew_ what was coming. "Lex," he said warningly, his cheeks flaming.

  
"It's okay, Clark. We all go through our 'experimentation' phases," Lex said, trying  
vainly to hide a laugh.

  
"Damn it, Lex," Clark whined. "It's not funny!"

  
"Sure it is," Lex quipped. "I cried; you watched gay porn. I have puffy eyes and you  
have a puffy - "

  
"If you finish that sentence," Clark said, low and dangerous, "I will throw you out your  
window. Do you understand me, Lex?"

  
Lex grinned. "I'm not saying a word."

  
Clark scowled and tried to figure out how they'd traded facial expressions so quickly.

  
"Why didn't you warn me?" Clark finally asked, and he sounded petulant.

  
"Clark," Lex said reasonably, "I have over _five hundred_ channels. I watch CNN,  
Cartoon Network, the Weather Channel, and sometimes, when I'm in a particularly selfdestructive  
mood, Lifetime. I didn't even _know_ I had...whatever the hell channel you  
were watching."

  
"You're lying," Clark said, more petulant by the moment. "It was close to CNN."

  
Lex rolled his eyes. "Your erection is taking all the blood away from your brain, Clark."

  
"_Lex_!" Clark cried, scandalized.

  
Lex, to his credit, didn't push any further. He just stood up, checked his watch, and said,  
"I'm going to go into the kitchen. I will probably be there a long time." His tone was  
blandly suggestive. "In fact, I may be there for several minutes, turning on various  
sources of sound so that whatever noise may come out of my bathroom would be totally  
masked."

  
Clark imagined killing Lex. Just for a minute.

  
"Well, then," Lex said, smiling like an idiot. "See you in a few uneventful moments."

  
And Lex walked out, shutting the bedroom door behind him.

  
Clark muttered every curse word he knew and struggled to the bathroom, glaring at his  
dick, wondering if this was a normal thing between friends: space to jerk off.

*****

  
Lex said that despite seeing Clark as red as a tomato after his first brush with gay porn,  
maybe staying at the penthouse wasn't doing Metropolis justice. Besides, even Martha's  
approval would only extend so far, and Lex set his cell phone to alert him when it hit  
midnight so that they could at least _start_ trying to get back to Smallville.

  
It was nearly eight thirty, and Lex was rolling something around in his head.

  
Clark could tell that Lex was debating with himself from the way that his brow furrowed,  
how his eyes were more gray than blue, and how his mouth was set into an irritated little  
line, as if Lex was more annoyed by having _trouble_ making the decision, than by  
making the decision at all.

  
Weird how he knew that. Maybe it was just the proximity.

  
Which led, like a lot of things had been doing recently, back to psychology and the  
'Proximity effect,' which couldn't possibly be applied to the situation since he and Lex  
were _not_ doing that. This is kind of like a date, his brain suddenly and very  
unhelpfully supplied, and Clark wished he could take a metal bat to his own head, not  
that it would work, but at least it would _seem_ therapeutic.

  
Therapy. Psychology. God _damn_ it.

  
"You're brooding," Lex said, casting Clark a curious glance from the corner of his eye.

  
Clark flushed, hot and quick. "We-ll."

  
Lex rolled his eyes. "You know, I'm just going to use being a freak for most of my life as  
my excuse for being a piss poor friend here, but if it's about Lana, just lie and say you  
were thinking about the environment or the most recent incarnation of the tax code."

  
Clark almost choked, amazed. He wanted to be angry (or at least offended) with Lex for  
being so cold and so unpleasantly frank in his assessment of Clark's relationship with  
Lana. He wanted to pout that he had allowed himself to become so predictable. He  
wanted to ask Lex why his two conversations options were taxes and trees, when Clark  
knew _lots_ of interesting lies, good ones, too.

  
"You're not a freak," was what Clark said out loud.

  
Lex sighed and looked sheepish. "Sorry."

  
Clark shrugs. It... wasn't as big an issue as it should have been. "S'Okay."

  
They sat for a while, lounging on the floor in front of Lex's incredible window, staring  
out into the ever-darkening cityscape. Clark felt soft and fuzzy all over, lethargic and  
comfortable, but his brain was teeming with activity, too much thinking.

  
"Jesus, I wanted to do something tonight," Lex complained.

  
Clark turned to look at his friend lazily. "Yeah?"

  
Lex looked dissatisfied. "I was going to impress you with my Metropolis suave." Clark  
laughed and Lex continued, ignoring him. "I used to _rule_ this town in my teens, Clark.  
You said the name Lex Luthor at any bar, any restaurant, any club, and you were talking  
about a _legend_." Lex looked distinctly annoyed, off-put almost, but most of all, tired.  
"And now, I can't even will myself to get up and go somewhere."

  
Clark hummed in agreement. "Is that what you wanted, though?"

  
Lex turned to him with a curious, blue gaze. "What, to be boring?"

  
"To be that legend," Clark said slowly, turning back out to the evening, breathing  
slowing, feeling his arms relax.

  
Every muscle in his body felt remarkably loose and he felt lighter, almost suspended, the  
end result of moments hanging in the infinity that was Lex's smooth, sandalwood voice  
and the blackness that engulfed Metropolis. It was like flying, almost, the _largeness_ of  
the window, the _broadness_ of the city, and the _depth_ of the silence that he and Lex  
had let flourish. In the background, the refrigerator hummed, Lex's computer  
occasionally made a clicking sound, and somewhere, he thought heard a dim thump, but  
everything was so contained, so far away this high off of the ground -

  
For the first time in his life, Clark Kent thought that he might like heights.

  
Like them a lot. To be so _removed_ from everything terrible in the world, gliding.

  
Lex looked thoughtful, the quiet, scholarly nature underneath the cutthroat capitalist  
emerging while he categorized the city streets below them, outside the window.

  
"I'm not sure," Lex replied finally. "It was just something a lot of us did."

  
"Us?" Clark asked.

  
"Us, Clark. The maladjusted offspring of the extremely wealthy. On any given night in  
Metropolis, New York, Chicago, or Los Angeles, you would find the spawn of the  
billionaires and millionaires of the world doing extremely bad things."

  
Lex's voice was low and solemn, raw like he was peeling something aside, carefully  
showing Clark something, so Clark listened carefully, thinking that it was important.  
That whatever happened for the rest of his life, as long as he was with Lex, it would be  
important. Because _Lex_ was important, and he'd started realizing that with more and  
more certain clarity.

  
"I used to see the same kids at cotillion that I saw snorting coke the night before, and  
we'd all pretend in public, Clark," Lex went on, eyes hard like nails. "It was like a big  
game, who can go the furthest, the fastest. We all waited for some sort of reaction."

  
Clark had the inexplicable urge to _do something_.

  
He fumbled through his brain, tried to think of something, anything, to ease the growing  
tension in Lex's shoulders. Because as important as Lex's revelation might have been,  
Clark didn't want him unhappy. He _never_ wanted Lex unhappy, and that was getting  
clearer and clearer, too.

  
So he reached out, and without really thinking about it, laced his fingers through Lex's,  
laying their hands on the carpet, palm to palm. Thick, sun-browned fingers twined with  
Lex's pale, smooth hands; ragged nails clicking with manicured cuticles, and it _worked_  
somehow, somehow, the weight and intimacy of it all worked. It wasn't awkward, like  
the not-just-friendly hugs that Chloe had sometimes given him; it wasn't like the  
discomfited kiss he'd shared with Lana the night she'd finally admitted to caring for him.  
It didn't even arrive with the giddy, nervous nausea-cum-excitement of reciprocated  
affection; it was just comfortable, simply good. It felt..._close_.

  
Clark stopped thinking about Psychology then, stopped driving himself crazy over  
whether or not he really liked Lana, if maybe he liked Lex too much, if everything was  
wrong or if _anything at all_ was right. If something worked, why question?

  
It didn't really matter right then.

  
Lex didn't even turn to meet Clark's searching gaze, just let his hand be held, tightening  
his long fingers around Clark's and kept talking.

  
"And eventually, one by one," Lex murmured, "you'd see it happen. Tristan in rehab,  
then moved back into his father's house. Julian gets legally emancipated at seventeen,  
moves in with a fifty-five year old performance artist. Jensen writes a book, destroys her  
mother in it, and then reconciles." Lex was smiling now, the kind of edgy, unreal  
expression that Clark _hated_ to see on his face. "They all fade, Clark. One by one, they  
disappear and the game usually ends when you're seventeen, because you realize how  
stupid it is to destroy yourself over people who always cared, or never would anyway."

  
Lex was quiet for a long time before he finally said, "Sorry."

  
Clark squeezed his hand, gently. "Thanks for telling me."

  
Lex turned to look at him for a long time before he laughed softly, shifting against the  
couch, his shoulders rolling but his fingers still comfortably twined with Clark's. "You're  
such a dumbass, Clark."

  
"Yeah? How's that?" Clark asked, more amused than offended.

  
Lex made a sound that was suspiciously close to a snort. "I buy you a truck, and you give  
it back. I offer to save your family farm, and your folks say "no." I try to give you  
expensive things, great things, needful things, and you turn them away. And then I tell  
you stupid stories about dumb things I did when I was younger, and you treat them like  
they're the best gifts in the world."

  
Clark blinked. He hadn't really thought of it like that. "I like that you tell me."

  
"Why, though?" Lex asked.

  
Clark shrugged. "Makes me feel important to you. Like I can help, or something."

  
Lex looked at him for a long time, the all-consuming concentration that had led Clark to  
distracting curiosity and the somewhat frightening possession playing across his face in  
the dim light.

  
"Don't say things like that, Clark," Lex finally whispered, eyes big and bright.

  
"Why not? It's true," Clark replied, softly.

  
Lex stared at him for another long, considering moment.

  
And slowly, painfully, sadly, and so _awkwardly_ untangled their hands.

  
"Come on," Lex said, standing up, turning away. "I want to show you something."

  
Clark nodded, and struggled his way back on his feet, ignoring the part of his chest that  
seized up, tightened, and ached, wailed in protest. Everything that had been so right just  
went horribly wrong again, and he couldn't let himself think about the reasons why.

  
That would overcomplicate things, and Lex clearly didn't want it to be that hard.

*****

  
Clark didn't know that cities could have bluffs, especially not in the Midwest.

  
"Martin Schuller," Lex said grandly, "America's drywall king had this made; it used to be  
a landfill."

  
Clark looked around himself and found _no_ resemblance between his surroundings and  
the Hiller Landfill and Dump just forty miles from Smallville. For one, Hiller lacked a  
lake, and sure as hell didn't have sparkling lights just off in the distance, the low sound of  
street music and peoples' voices.

  
"That's the thing about Metropolis, Clark," Lex went on, "everyone hears it and thinks of  
slick buildings, metal, glass, and corporate technology. But on the sidewalk, street level,  
if you're too busy looking up, you miss all the really great things."

  
Like the Schuller Vista.

  
It was a tiny, forgettable little crche of green in the sprawl of concrete that made up  
Metropolis, but it was remarkably beautiful there. It looked like a tiny smear of  
wilderness in the middle of honed domestication, like Nature had one last stronghold, and  
she was armed to the teeth there. There was grass - sort of, but it was mixed with weeds  
and flowers and trees, lots of them in copses, huddled together and hiding groping  
teenagers, playful kids. The artificial hills and valleys seemed at bit over the top for one  
tiny block of green, but it didn't seem out of place.

  
Clark smiled, the depressed atmosphere from earlier leaving. "This is great."

  
Lex smiled triumphantly.

  
And then Clark frowned. "Aren't you allergic to flowers?"

  
"I made them replant ones I'm not allergic to when I bought it," Lex said offhandedly,  
like buying a park was like picking up an extra pack of plastic spoons at the Wal-Mart.

  
"Okay," Clark said stupidly. He looked around again before whirling back to Lex with a  
wary expression on his face. "You're not going to, to try and _give_ this to me, are you?"

  
Lex laughed, loud and bright. "No, Clark. I just wanted to _show_ it to you."

  
Clark relaxed. "Good."

  
"What's your problem with gifts anyway?" Lex asked, settling down on a bench.

  
Clark flopped by his side, letting his long arms run along the back of the bench, and it  
was only as his fingertips brushed expensive wool that he realized that he was practically  
stroking Lex's shoulder. "I don't have anything against gifts," he shot back.

  
"Lies, Clark," Lex said reproachfully.

  
Clark sighed, and realized he still hadn't moved his hand. He wondered how they looked,  
sitting on that park bench at night, his arm practically around Lex's shoulders. Like a  
_couple_, Clark, stop being obtuse, his brain lectured, and Clark figured he ought to stop  
reading all those SAT word lists before he went to bed, because they were starting to  
incorporate themselves into his _mental_ vocabulary, too. Aside from diction, he was  
also irritated that his brain was being so _shallow_ about the whole thing he and Lex  
were friends - just friends. Good friends.

  
"It's just," he started, and stopped. He didn't really know how to say it. "Cheap."

  
Lex's eyes bulged and he whipped around to stare at Clark. "The truck was _cheap_?"

  
Clark pulled his arms in front of his chest, warding Lex off and waving off his own  
innocence, eyes wide with surprise that it had _actually come out of his mouth_.

  
"No! No! Not like _that_ kind of cheap, Lex!"

  
"Like there's a _good_ kind of cheap!" Lex said, frowning.

  
"No, like, you didn't have to really _think_ about it," Clark said, articulating himself  
badly. He would _kill_ to have Chloe's verbal talent sometimes, and it was one of those  
times. "Like, you just thought, 'Hey, farm kid. What does a farm kid want? A truck.'  
Like you had your secretary order it and didn't even give it a second thought."

  
Lex looked at him strangely. "I'd known you _one day_."

  
Clark didn't pout, but it was a near thing. "I _saved your life_."

  
"You _loved_ the truck!" Lex argued. "You _gaze_ at the truck every time you come  
over! You _visit_ the truck in the garage and you _fondle_ it!"

  
Clark blushed dark red. "I do _not fond_ \- that's not the _point_!"

  
Lex rolled his eyes. "Right. So. It's not actually 'cheap' - " And Lex said it as if it was a  
dirty word " - it was 'impersonal.'"

  
Clark thought on that for a second. "Not even that, actually. It was almost...dismissive."

  
Lex blinked, honestly interested now. "Explain."

  
"Like you were settling a debt," Clark went on, thankful that he could make himself clear  
on this point at least. "Like you thought you owed me something for saving your life,  
and you picked the easiest way to quietly shuffling me out of your life, getting rid of that  
mark in your book, you know? Like you didn't want to have to deal with me."

  
Lex winced at that. "Clark, it wasn't - "

  
"I know it wasn't, Lex," Clark interrupted quickly. "I know that _now_. You want to be  
nice to people. That's just how you are, and I get that," he finished confidently.

  
Lex smiled wryly. "Cheap," he said, barely hiding laugher.

  
Clark blushed again. "I didn't mean - "

  
"I _know_, Clark," Lex teased, eyes dancing, and Clark knew he'd been had.

  
"Oh, screw you, Lex," he muttered, crossing his arms and looking down at the ground,  
the sound of Lex's chuckles in the background, mingling with the sounds of the park.

  
It was a warm night, and Clark felt alive.

  
It was a long time before Lex said, "Thank you for knowing that, Clark."

*****

  
"How can you eat so much?" Lex asked, awe in his tone, or something close to it.

  
Clark, packing away his fourth roast beef sandwich, glanced up, swallowing before  
saying, "I'm a teenager, Lex. I'm still growing."

  
"_I_ was a teenager before, too, Clark," Lex shot back, "and I grew, and I _still_ didn't  
see anyone eat as much as you do."

  
They were sitting in Haverford's diner, frequented mostly by hate-filled double E majors  
from Metropolis University. According to Lex, Haverford's made legendary roast beef  
sandwiches at legendary prices, four dollars for something that would have you stuffed  
from mid-morning to midnight, when most people dropped by for a slice of pie and  
banter. Lex had gleefully explained how lab groups often met there to bicker over how to  
set up their experiments, and how it always dissolved into mindless ranting about how  
much they wanted to stick which flaming/sharp/poisonous object or substance into what  
orifice of their teacher. "It's some of the most incredibly venomous ranting in the world,  
Clark," Lex had said, grinning.

  
Clark smiled, goofy and big. "I'm special."

  
Lex laughed easily, leaning back in the booth. "Most people don't like admitting that."

  
"I didn't mean _short bus_ special, Lex," Clark shot back, wiping his mouth with a napkin  
before taking a sip of coke. "This place is really great, Lex," he said, genuine  
gratefulness shining in green eyes.

  
Clark felt good. Clark felt relaxed. Clark felt warm all over. Maybe it was the  
atmosphere, maybe it was the sandwiches, maybe it was simply the fact that he hadn't  
seen Lex in _so long_ and they'd just spent the last several hours together, talking and  
driving and laughing and watching stupid movies. There was something wonderful in  
taking pleasure in someone's company simply for the sake of it, and he figured that Lex  
appreciated that, too.

  
"How do you know so much about Psychology, anyway?" Clark suddenly asked.

  
Lex raised an eyebrow. "Weren't you the one avoiding that conversation topic?"

  
"Even _if_ you took an introductory class," Clark went on, ignoring Lex's question, "it  
must have been _years_ ago, and you would have forgotten all of this stuff." Which he  
knew was blatantly untrue given Lex's eerie ability to remember any and everything,  
most especially that which would embarrass Clark if Lex said it with a wink and a grin.

  
Lex rolled his eyes. "First off, not '_years_' ago. I'm only twenty-three. Secondly, I have  
an extraordinarily good memory, Clark. You should know that."

  
Clark did, but little entertained him more than watching Lex be teased about either his  
age, having his intellect questioned; his friend defended both rabidly.

  
"The last guy who thought that highly of himself turned into a flower, Lex," Clark said,  
playful disapproval in his voice even as he leaned over the table to be closer.

  
Lex leaned in as well, their faces just a breath away now. "That was Narcissus, Clark,  
and _I_ told you that. Which, by the way, just adds credence to my claim that I am  
brilliant and have a great memory, etcetera."

  
Clark smirked. "You're shameless."

  
"Never bothered you before," Lex shot back, grinning.

  
Clark suddenly realized how _close_ they were.

  
Eye to eye, they were literally just a shift apart, like the origin of a kiss.

  
When Clark had kissed Lana, she'd been (first of all) so much shorter than him, that he'd  
bent his knees, lowered his head, and felt her get on her tiptoes; there was so much work  
involved, and by the time their lips had met, it was awkward. Not organic, Clark  
supposed that was the term, at least used in that context. And this closeness, this  
_proximity_ with Lex seemed so unassuming, something that he'd grown used to, and  
why hadn't Clark realized before that normal guys didn't do that? Lean into one another  
when they spoke, circle one another when they bantered, let smiles flirt across their faces  
and let sly innuendos slip into their voices when they teased one another?

  
And they _definitely_ did _not_ hold hands.

  
Why had that all seemed so _right_ with Lex?

  
And then something passed in Lex's eyes, nervous and warning. He jerked back, pulled  
away, leaned against the cracked plastic padding of the booth and set his hands on the  
edge of the table, closing all the windows and doors, locking Clark out. The brief, warm  
encounter was gone, and Lex was back, all business and careless conversation; there were  
no consequences with this Lex, and Clark wanted to _scream_ at the transformation.

  
"Psychology is in everyone's life. Therapy is growing rampant these days, Clark" Lex  
said. The tone was still affable, friendly, but _altered_, somehow, so that it wasn't nearly  
as filling at his earlier words and like he was trying to change the subject.

  
Clark didn't hide his frown, and the angry teenager in him reared his ugly head. "Yeah?  
Personal experience, Lex?" he said, feeling as if he'd just been rejected.

  
Lex froze, gray eyes crystallizing like dirty water. Every muscle tensed, and Clark could  
_feel_ his heartbeat quicken, rise, hit panic, but Lex himself didn't make a move, just sat  
there, and didn't breathe.

  
Clark felt like shit. Total. Shit.

  
"Oh - God. Lex," he gasped. "I'm sorry. I didn't - "

  
He fell silent, since Lex hadn't jumped in with a pacifying phrase or forgiving smirk.  
He'd only tightened his fingers on the table, and stared over Clark's left shoulder.

  
"It's okay, Clark," Lex said, voice icy. "You didn't know."

  
There was a long, horrible silence.

  
"I should get you home," Lex said.

*****

  
"Clark, you're losing your mind," Chloe said, pity in her voice.

  
She still cared too much, and Clark could hear it in her tone. It had an odd similarity to  
the inflection that Lex's words usually held when advising him on one matter of the other,  
only so much more obvious. Clark's time with Lex had schooled him well in the art of  
subtlety, and Chloe's crush on him was minor leagues now.

  
"I'm _fine_, Chloe," he insisted, irritated.

  
Clark _was_ fine, which didn't make any sense to him. Logically, it seemed as if the  
earth should have collapsed into its own core or at least there should have been a tornado  
or rain of fire or two, because Lex has gone four whole days without talking to Clark.

  
Chloe gave him a look that had _nothing_ to do with how much she liked him. "Yeah?"

  
"Yeah," Clark said firmly.

  
"Look at your paper," she said, a smirk on her face. Delight overwhelming an almost  
resigned sadness in her eyes, as if she was too amused to be completely hurt by whatever  
had - Oh, God, Clark thought.

  
Dr. Polanski had stepped out of the room for a moment to talk to an administrator, and  
they'd been told to copy the notes from the overhead while she was gone. Most of the  
room was chatting quietly, and Clark had simply let himself doodle on the margins of his  
paper, cursing Psychology in his mind.

  
And somehow, in his distraction he'd drawn It.

  
It was a tiny, bald cartoon man in a tiny cartoon car backing over a tiny cartoon Clark.

  
"Oh, God," Clark muttered, turning the color of his t-shirt.

  
"Cracked," Chloe said, giggling. "Totally _cracked_."

  
Clark flushed even darker and glared at Chloe, since it was better than analyzing the  
drawing. "Shut up," he hissed. When she didn't, a petulant tone came into his voice,  
tempered with a great and very real sadness. "It's _not funny_, Chloe,; he was  
_incredibly_ pissed at me."

  
Chloe's giggles died at that. She cocked her head to one side. "What did you say,  
anyway? Lex never _stays_ mad at you. It's like a universal invariant."

  
Clark ignored the implication that it was always _his_ fault, but couldn't help the wave of  
guilt that came over him as he replayed the conversation in Metropolis. Everything had  
been working out so well: the night had been warm and balmy; Lex had been relaxed,  
unwound; and they'd been running the most incredible conversation all night. And aside  
from that, Lex had pried himself open, let Clark see all the scars and bruises.

  
And Clark had just rubbed salt in all the wounds.

  
Clark stared at his hands. "I...I made a joke about him."

  
Chloe raised her brows in surprise, and then narrowed her eyes in suspicion, toointelligent  
blue flashing with skepticism that Clark had seen _too_ many times in his life.  
"Lex has been dragged through the muck by every single publication out there, Clark. I  
_hardly_ believe that you teasing him would leave him nonverbal for _four days_." She  
crossed her arms over her chest, and Clark make a valiant effort not to stare down her  
shirt, because he felt a moral imperative not to gawk if he wasn't going to act on it. "Fess  
up, Clark. What did you do?"

  
He sat stubbornly quiet. If he said it out loud, Chloe would think he was a creep.

  
"Clark!" she said, annoyed.

  
Then again, he'd already blown her off at the Spring Formal two years ago, ignored her  
lingering affections to that day, and still turned to her for help like it wasn't just  
compounding the problem. Chances were that Chloe _already_ thought he was a creep.  
Maybe, if Clark was lucky, she'd just take this as the final straw, and decide that she  
didn't like him that way anymore.

  
Silver linings, Clark realized, were _very important_ for his sanity.

  
"I made fun of him being in therapy, all right?" he huffed, and waited.

  
Chloe's eyes got big for a second. Her mouth fell open, and she just _stared_.

  
It was half a minute before the disapproval filtered into her gaze, and she murmured,  
"Oh, _Clark_, how _could_ you?"

  
"I didn't _know_," he protested, realizing that maybe his plan for her not to be _attracted_  
to him would go further than simply destroying a schoolgirl crush.

  
"How could you _not_?" she demanded, frowning. "Look, Clark, the Inquisitor got a  
hold of some information a year or so ago, and they did an enormous expose on Lex:  
school record, childhood stuff, and yeah, _years_ of therapy, Clark."

  
Clark felt his temper rise. "I don't _read_ rumors about Lex, you know that."

  
"They aren't just _rumors_, Clark," Chloe shot back, glaring now. "Look, I know in  
Clark Kent's universe, you can ignore all the bad stuff around here, paste a big stupid  
smile to your face and pretend that nothing is going wrong. But this is _Smallville_,  
Clark, ground zero for freaks, geeks, and meteor mutants, and oh, yeah, _Lex Luthor_."

  
Clark opened his mouth to protest, but Chloe went on.

  
"You might think that you're doing him a favor in not listening to all the horrible stuff  
that people say or think about him, and that might be true, but you can't shut your ears to  
everything, Clark," she insisted. "You're not being fair to yourself _or_ Lex like that.  
You can just pretend everything's all right, because a lot of times, it isn't. And if you  
would _pay attention_, _grow up_, then you'd know that and you would have known  
this!"

  
Clark bit the inside of his mouth to keep from yelling back.

  
It was _not_ as big a deal as Chloe was making it sound.

  
"It's _just_ therapy," he said, fighting hard for composure.

  
"No, Clark, it wasn't," Chloe said, voice solemn, and still angry. "When my mom left,  
my dad took me to a psychologist, Clark. It was horrible. It still is, don't ask questions,  
because I don't want to talk about it," she cut him off, seeing him open his mouth. "Lex's  
dad sent him to a psychiatrist, Clark - and had him given drugs. Lots of them."

  
Clark just stared, feeling something rise in the back of his throat. He wanted to throw up.

  
And he could see it: nine year old Lex Luthor, bald from the horrible meteor shower that  
had been _Clark's_ fault, in the ICU for months before being released, and then shut into  
a doctor's office, given medicine, told that he had to behave, be good, be perfect. Lex's  
gray-blue eyes, fluttering fear that he didn't bother to hide that young, and the shudder  
that remained to that day, before Lex squared his shoulders and walked out into the  
world, marked by Clark's inauspicious birth, derided by the people he employed, and hurt  
by those he cared about.

  
"Oh, God," he murmured, putting his head down on the desk.

  
He felt Chloe's hand on his shoulder, stroking comfortingly. "Clark, I know... I know  
you want to be a good friend to him," she started softly, "but you can't do that if you don't  
really know him, can you?"

  
And that was becoming more and more readily apparent.

  
Clark obviously didn't know Lex at all. He didn't, and had never bothered to try, and see  
beyond the witty, off-beat, brilliant Guy In The Castle that lived four miles down from  
Kent Farms. He saw Lex the way that Lex _wanted_ to be seen by Clark, and not  
necessarily as total truth, and he wondered why that was. Maybe it was easier, for all the  
suspicion, all the horrible fights had simply..._stopped_ one random day a year ago, when  
Lex got tired of asking, and Clark decided to shut out the rest of the world.

  
It was easier to be friends if they compartmentalized.

  
So what did that mean?

  
That if Clark really _knew_ Lex, he wouldn't like him anymore? That maybe his father  
had been right about the Luthors the whole time? Or that maybe Clark was afraid that he  
_would_ like Lex despite everything that he might find, that maybe he was morally  
ambiguous, too. Maybe that's what he was so afraid of; something had to be cut and dry.  
Nothing else in his life operated by normal standards; he had to be Good, since Bad was  
simply Bad, and he wanted Lex in his life too much for Lex to anywhere _near_ Bad.

  
"I didn't know," Clark murmured again.

  
Chloe sighed. "Get up, Clark. She's coming back in."

  
So Clark did, watching the door open again, and Dr. Polanski strolling in, saying  
something about dissociative disorders and superheroes.

  
He heard the rest of the class laugh, and in Clark's head, all he heard were questions.

*****

  
"I'm not sure if _this_ is the way to do it, either, Clark," Chloe said.

  
Clark glared over the stack of old newspapers and computer printouts.

  
They'd barricaded themselves in the Torch office with what looked to be every news  
clipping involving the Luthor family in existence. Chloe kept a fairly respectable file  
herself, much to Clark's disenchantment, and she'd obligingly printed the whole thing out,  
weeping for her printer cartridge the whole while.

  
"You said get to know him, Chloe," Clark quipped, "and now I am."

  
She rolled her eyes and looked at her watch, pursing her lips. "Well, you knock yourself  
out, _I_ have to get going." She waved goodbye and Clark waved back.

  
She hesitated at the door, and Clark almost - _almost_ \- pretended not to see.

  
Pay attention. Grow up. Self-awareness. Right. It had to start somewhere.

  
"Chloe," he said gently, and she flushed dark red - caught. "I still don't - "

  
She held up a hand, smirking, sadness in her expression nonetheless. "Oh, _please_,  
Clark, I don't kid myself." She glanced at her watch again. "I do have to go. Bye."

  
And she disappeared down the hall.

  
Clark listened to her lingering footsteps for a long time before he bent his stack to the  
files and pages and printed photos, a lifetime that he'd never really dared to look into  
laying splayed underneath his fingers, primed for discovery.

  
He devoured it, drowned every curiosity he'd ever had in rumors and news clippings and  
blurbs of information, half-blurred photos of Lex stepping out of board meetings and  
raves, handcuffed and harangued by reporters and girlfriends and business associates. So  
many snapshots of a life led dangerously, looking so harmless, all embodied by one  
confusing young man who held Clark at a careful distance, because intimacy gave  
weapons to inflict pain, and Clark seemed to be _so good_ at doing just that.

  
Lex had been a student at a small, private school in Metropolis before his father took him  
on one errant business trip to Kansas, and the Luthor son lost a year of his life to medical  
treatment and - _God_ \- therapy. It made sense. If it had been Clark, he would have  
spent the rest of his _life_ hiding under the bed, afraid of the sky, afraid of light, afraid of  
fire, and it only _just_ started to hit Clark how much Lex had to fight to _be_ in  
Smallville, every day, the place of his ruin. It was the beginning of a chain reaction that  
had only been catalyzed by Lex's mother's death, and it ended in an ugly incident at  
Excelsior before Lex graduated high school two years early, went to Metropolis, blew up  
a chemistry lab, and transferred to Princeton. Then there were glowing reports,  
gorgeously candid photographs of Lex walking around campus in t-shirts and jeans or at  
school events, laughing and looking genuinely happy, none of the earlier, edgier Lex left  
from his years terrorizing Metropolis.

  
Then one small change - something, then Smallville.

  
Not one newspaper, news organization, or even website had any idea about the hows and  
whys, just that one day, Lex had been in Yale, working on his graduate degree, and the  
next, he'd been summarily removed, shipped to Smallville.

  
And in between all of those impersonal facts, there were very personal stories. All in all,  
five paternity suits, dozens of heartbroken girlfriends, rumored boys in clubs who had  
indulged or been indulged in, and a constant litany of things that the people of Metropolis  
liked to know: where Lex had been on Saturday, and with whom. There were photos of  
Lex through a restaurant window, smiling at a pretty girl across from him. There were  
pictures of Lex at charity dinners, dressed to the nines, a socialite on his arm. There were  
images of Lex at baseball games, parties, conferences, and just on the street.

  
Clark examined them all, took them in carefully, looked at his friend from all angles.

  
The phone of the Torch office rang, and absentmindedly, he picked it up.

  
"Hello?" he said.

  
Lex smiling at something in the distance, wearing a dark gray t-shirt, dressed in jeans.  
He was standing outside of an old brick building at Yale, two short, Asian girls around  
him, and he had something complicated-looking in his hands. A physics experiment, the  
caption said, something on spring constants.

  
He looked happy.

  
And Clark wondered what had taken him away from all of that.

  
"Do you have _any_ idea what time it is, Clark?"

  
Oh, _shit_. His eyes darted toward the corner of the computer monitor: 7:45PM.

  
"Um," he started, frantically grabbing up a stack of files, trying to put away what he  
couldn't carry at superspeed without ripping the phone cord out of the phone _or_ the  
jack from the wall. "Sorry, Mom. I lost track of time," he said, hands blurring on the  
surface of the table.

  
"What is _going on_ with you recently, Clark?" she asked, voice strange.

  
He sighs, stuffing one file into his bookbag and pulling it on his shoulder. "Nothing,  
Mom. Just a little scatterbrained. I'm really sorry." He hung up.

  
And then he was out the door, the fields and plains of Kansas blurring around him.

*****

  
Clark waited until Wednesday, because Lex had no excuses on Wednesday.

  
It would be unexpected, since produce delivery was always on Friday afternoons. It  
would be unavoidable, since Clark knew Lex had a plant management meeting in his  
offices until around four thirty, at which point Gabe shooed everyone out, told Lex he  
was doing a good job, and Lex pried himself from his desk for the promise of cognac.  
Clark usually had massive amounts of homework on Wednesday (which he did that  
particular Wednesday, too), so for as many years as he'd been making the castle his  
second home, he'd never chanced in on a Wednesday.

  
Clark knocked at five o'clock sharp, Wednesday evening.

  
And almost fell on his ass when Lex opened the door himself.

  
They stared at one another for a moment, blinking in surprise, before Lex said, "What a  
surprise, Clark." His voice was smooth, but wary, defensive like he was ready for  
anything that Clark might find tumbling out of his mouth that afternoon.

  
Clark winced, and said, "Yeah, you know me, full of them."

  
Lex raised an eyebrow, but didn't speak. He took two steps back and shied to the side,  
giving Clark the universal "come in already" symbol by getting out of the way.

  
"What brings you out here to desolate Luthor manor today, Clark?" Lex asked.

  
"I wanted to talk to you," Clark replied, feeling more nervous by the moment.

  
The strap of his bookbag was digging into his shoulder and his shirt was feeling awfully  
constrictive. He needed to breathe, and obviously, his latest batch of flannel was in  
cahoots with Lex's most indecipherable stare, trying for the Make Clark Kent Stroke Out  
award, presented annually, past winners being Lana Lang, Alien Powers, and what do  
you know, Lex Luthor's Amazing Flying Car.

  
Lex frowned at Clark, the expression playing at the corners of his mouth, not so much  
disapproving as tired, disappointed. As if he'd hoped that they could wipe that  
conversation and all that it had brought with it from their minds. Pretend like it had never  
happened, pretend like Clark _always_ pretended and get on with life, because even if  
that was piling dynamite with lit matches, it was better than confronting the truth.

  
They made a few more confusing left and right turns before they reached the bottom of a  
staircase, one Clark had never understood and always hated. There was a certain lack of  
economy in a jagged staircase, with four landings in all before it twined itself like some  
misshapen snake up a high end of the castle, bypassed the second, and reached the third  
floor directly. It all seemed so excessively angular, hard and sharp not for the sake of any  
purpose other than being imposing, and the designers had erred to the point of  
overcompensation, so Luthor manor's incongruous staircase was just that:, an anomaly in  
a sea of ancient Scottish stones.

  
It hit Clark, four steps behind Lex as they trotted up, what the main problem was:

  
Lack of fluidity.

  
Lex moved like a waterfall draped in silk. He whispered and floated and disappeared  
quietly around corners, stepped up in surprise. The only alert that Lex was there was  
either the impossibly expensive tap of his shoes or a heavy, tangible presence. As if  
Clark was in the room with ambition itself, caged by practiced composure, natural grace,  
God-given dignity beyond what Clark could manage. But the point was that there wasn't  
one wasted iota of motion, all of it cohesive like some large, circular modern painting,  
brilliantly, effortlessly flawless. Lex was all curves made from edges and razor-sharp  
teeth, laced with bright-hot wit, and he moved like he was swimming in a sea of  
molasses.

  
Clark frowned. Lex didn't belong in that castle. Like Lex didn't belong in Smallville.

  
Irrationally, he flashed back to the penthouse, with all of its muted mahogany furniture  
and gray cloth, the metal gleams of fixtures, the glassy wall of Metropolis, and the smell  
of Lex, pressed into his shirt. The way that Lex's hands had been wrapped around his  
midsection, the way that Lex's skin felt against his cheek:, as if Clark was pressing very  
fine, warm paper to his own rough-hewn cheek.

  
Lex lacked visible edges.

  
That doesn't mean, Clark reminded himself carefully, that he doesn't have them.

  
Edges like Desiree, and her aftermath. Edges like the years he'd spent doped up at his  
father's command, screaming awake at night to dreams of fire tearing through the sky.  
Edges like whatever had taken him away from his graduate work at Yale and dropped  
him in Smallville. Whatever had...brought him to Clark.

  
Lex pushed open a door casually, and their footsteps stopped echoing, falling on a thick,  
rich rug. Clark looked down before he looked up, and realized he was in Lex's personal  
offices, the one that attempted to mimic the easy grace of the penthouse, but fell just  
short.

  
Oddly, Clark got the feeling that that failing by a margin irritated Lex more than failing  
by a mile, because he imagined Lex was one of those people who could taste victory like  
sweetness bursting in his mouth.

  
And it happened more and more often those days, but thinking of Lex's mouth set of a  
chain reaction that always made Clark's conspicuously uncomfortable.

  
"I owe you an apology, Clark," Lex said, but his voice was tired, like he was fighting  
himself to say it out loud.

  
Clark blinked.

  
Something rushed his brain, some sort of adrenaline reaction that sent him flaring straight  
into panic and screamed that if He Didn't Apologize First, Then It Would All Be Ruined,  
Forever.

  
"No!" Clark all but shouted, and he noted Lex's surprised expression with an almost smug  
feeling in the pit of his stomach. "No. I owe _you_ an apology, Lex," he said, more  
softly this time, watching with awkward expression bloom in Lex's eyes.

  
"Clark," his friend started, voice strangled, "don't be ridiculous, you weren't the - "

  
"Lex," Clark said, making a decision. "Sit down." He pointed at a chair.

  
Lex cocked up one perfect ginger-colored eyebrow and did so, just this side of amused.

  
Clark knew very clearly that he was being humored, and that if he did a few careful  
calculations in his head, he had just over five minutes to make his point before Lex lost  
interest, and the whole purpose of a surprise ambush on Wednesday would be lost.

  
He cleared his throat.

  
"Okay, I'm sorry," Clark started.

  
Lex looked at him expectantly, basking in it now.

  
Clark frowned. "This was easier in my head."

  
Lex rolled his eyes, mood elevating with every moment, for reasons that Clark didn't  
really understand, since "I'm sorry" were such ordinary, mundane words. "It's not that  
complicated, Clark. You apologized." Clark stared. "And I forgive you," Lex finished.

  
"Right, but that's not it," Clark said, starting to panic again.

  
Lex smirked. "I wonder if when I was your age, I overcomplicated everything, too.?"

  
Clark glared, and genius struck him. "My age!" he said excitedly.

  
He pulled off his backpack and grabbed for a nearby chair at the same time, making a  
spectacular amount of noise with a spectacular gracelessness, and Lex just watched with  
idle amusement, like a cat studying a lesser being. Which, to be honest, Clark often felt  
was justified being in a room with Lex; he'd never seen anyone move that smoothly  
before. It took a few more moments of digging and arranging his legs before he was  
sitting down facing Lex, the file folder of news clippings and internet printouts in his  
hand, and bookbag discarded on the floor.

  
"Lex," he said very seriously.

  
Lex looked like he was trying very hard to gauge the situation. "Yes, Clark.?"

  
Clark played with the folder in his hands. "Chloe...Chloe said something to me, and I  
thought it made a lot of sense." Lex opened his mouth to cut in and Clark continued  
blithely, knowing that if he let Lex talk, he'd learn loads about Alexander the Great and  
ancient Macedonia, but that he'd never make his point. "She said that I can't  
just...compartmentalize my friendship with you, that I can't just ignore parts and just  
pretend that they don't exist."

  
Lex's eyes got hard. "Did she?" he said dangerously.

  
Clark got the uncomfortable feeling that Lex had a List of People to Kill, and that thanks  
to that last statement, Chloe was now somewhere in good company, next to or  
sandwiched in between Lionel Luthor and Dominic Senatori.

  
"Yeah," Clark forged on bravely. At least I have his attention, he consoled himself. "I  
just...you know how I don't read the tabloids?"

  
Lex frowned. "Yes. And that's not a _bad_ thing, Clark; they're filled with lies."

  
"Yeah, and I get that," Clark said, "but I don't read _anything_ on you. Like, I make a  
conscious effort not to know you except when you tell me things."

  
"Why is that necessarily bad, Clark?" Lex shot back. "Instead of what a reporter says  
while out to make a buck with a nasty headline, you get it straight from the source." Lex  
smirked, and it wasn't at all nice or playful. "Don't tell me I'm _boring_ you, Clark."

  
The tone made him mad, and Clark didn't fight to keep it from his face.

  
"I'm being serious, Lex," he muttered. "I don't ask you anything, you tell me practically  
nothing about your past. I just - " he paused, looking for words " - just. Look, that thing  
in the diner wouldn't have happened if I had known about your childhood, and that's  
probably the easiest problem to fix between the two of us."

  
Lex was unreadable. "I don't think so, Clark."

  
Clark's mouth fell open. "Why not? All you'd have to do is _tell_ me things."

  
"The same," Lex murmured, "could be said about you."

  
That was the crux of the situation.

  
The room was extremely quiet, save for their measured breaths. There was the  
compensable silence that he shared with Pete, that he used to share with Chloe, and then  
there were the endorphin-drugged silences that he shared being near Lana, so close to  
something he liked so dearly.

  
And then there were silences he shared with Lex, when tension crackled in the air. It  
bordered on anger, flirted along provocation, and sometimes, without reason, they made  
Clarks' shirts tight around the collar, hot along the wrists, gave the unreasonable but  
altogether undeniable _need_ to pull off his jacket or slip into the bathroom for a splash  
of cold water.

  
This was one of the uncomfortably angry spaces of quiet.

  
"You already know, though," Clark said quietly.

  
Lex sighed, rage breaking into exhausted resignation. "Some of it. Most of it, maybe.  
But it's different." He chuckled, a quiet, bitter sound echoing in the room. "Like reading  
it from a tabloid, actually."

  
Clark winced. "I can't tell you some things."

  
"Too much to lose, Clark?" Lex said softly, no challenge in the tone.

  
Clark nodded.

  
"And what makes you think that my past doesn't hold the same significance?" Lex asked.

  
Clark looked up, stared into gray-blue eyes that he'd missed for four days, investigated  
inside and out. The familiar, cool-hot gaze that drove him up the wall, made him  
question fundamental beliefs, color in more and more areas gray where they had been  
simple white or unacceptable black:; Lex was the human equalizer, there was no such  
thing as good or evil or forgiven or forgotten. They were all shades of the same thing,  
and Clark hadn't ever understood it enough to work it to an acceptable hue.

  
"I don't want to lose you," Clark finally said.

  
The words that had burrowed into his brain, made a home in his secrets, hidden just as  
deeply as the ship in the cellar, and perhaps more fearfully. Because scientists and  
doctors and the government could be surpassed, hidden from, blamed on someone else,  
and dirty little secrets had no origin but his own fevered mind.

  
Lex looked like he'd been slapped, stunned silent, and he just _looked_ at Clark intently.

  
"And I'm afraid that if we keep doing this, I will," Clark went on.

  
Lex's face softened, and Clark felt that sunburst of sweet on his tongue. "Clark..."

  
"I just," Clark started, tight and angry, because this was manipulative.

  
He was playing on Lex's most vulnerable place, loneliness. And wasn't it tragic that Lex  
so perfectly fit the profile of the Poor Little Rich Boy? Only he'd pretended so well that  
he'd forgotten it himself in fits of drug-induced insanity, dancing on catwalks, so brazenly  
and boldly that the Daily Planet had a veritable cache on his exploits in Metropolis.  
Wasn't it terrible that Lex had shuffled it and filed it and rationalized it away for so long  
that he didn't even know that when he said Clark's name like that, leaned in that closely,  
with his voice like torn silk, that he was opening the contents of his heart?

  
That Clark wasn't _good_ enough to be gentle with it?

  
That despite the best of intentions, maybe Clark didn't know how?

  
He was looking so hard at the ground that he didn't feel it until Lex's hand was already on  
his cheek, smooth, cool fingers against his cheek, hot with frustration. Clark looked up,  
and was surprised by how blurred his vision was, by how broken Lex looked through  
what could _possibly_ be tears.

  
"Clark," Lex said softly. "Hey, come on, Clark."

  
He gulped for air, and it became more and more tangible, the reasons for the welling  
panic, the terror that he struck him so deeply that he'd had to lock it down tight and wrap  
it in lies before he could make his way over to the mansion that day. All the different  
variations of what would happen if it went wrong, if it went as badly as it had or could  
have in the past. If Clark wasn't lucky that day or if Lex was short-tempered and didn't  
Lex _see_? See how tenuous this wonderful thing they had was?

  
"God, don't be so nice to me, Lex," he whispered.

  
"Why not?" Lex said back, just as soft, crouched before him now. His voice sounded  
dry, airy. "You're the only one in my whole life I've met who's been worth it."

  
"That's the point!" Clark protested, eyes darting to corners of the room. "I'm not - "

  
" - Who I think you are?" Lex laughed.

  
Clark nodded frantically. He had to make Lex see.

  
And all of a sudden, that moment from the penthouse was reversed, and Lex was  
gathering Clark into his arms, slim and deceptively strong as they drew Clark in closer to  
Lex's thin chest.

  
"You're exactly who I see," Lex said gently.

  
Clark figured he'd already made a huge ass out of himself in front of Lex enough times  
that it wasn't an issue any longer, so he clung to Lex and let hot, angry tears squeeze  
themselves from his eyes. Years of repressed rage and anger and confusion, and endless,  
endless misunderstandings, over Lana, with Pete, with Chloe, and most importantly and  
damning, with Lex. So many moments when everything would have been perfectly fine  
if Clark could just turn to Lex, and wink. Lex would _know_, and would help Clark  
manufacture some sort of cover story, and they'd laugh about it later in the mansion, over  
pool or cards or bad television.

  
Clark hated himself, hated everything he'd let himself and let Lex become.

  
And the worst part was that one day, Lex was going to stop listening to all the badly  
thought-out lies, and something terrible was going to happen. Lex was going to go back  
to Metropolis and cry himself to sleep every night in that penthouse without Clark there  
to help him, and he'd probably have dreams about Desiree, about the sun fragmenting and  
falling to the earth, scorching cornfields, and about farm kids who lied and broke his  
heart. The worst part was that Lex would never really _know_.

  
"I had to tell Pete," he managed. "I had to tell Pete and I didn't want to - "

  
"Clark, it's all right," Lex said, voice soothing, like he was coaxing a young child to  
sleep.

  
"I wanted to tell you. You always look like you're going to _leave_ and - "

  
"It's okay, Clark," Lex was low, firm, decisive. "I'm not going anywhere."

  
Clark half-laughed, half-sobbed into Lex's extremely expensive and now-ruined shirt,  
breathing in the smell of cologne and Lex:, leather, and fresh linen, sophisticated  
simplicity. "Oh, God, I suck at this," Clark moaned.

  
Lex pulled away, running one hand through Clark's dark hair, and laughed. "At  
apologizing?" Clark nodded miserably, wiping at his face angrily with the heels of his  
hands, muttering dark curses at himself in his head. "Well, no, you're not _classically_  
talented at it, Clark, but you get points for originality."

  
Clark narrowed his eyes.

  
Clark remembered in some distant part of his mind that this was supposed to be a serious  
conversation. Serious conversation with serious consequences. _Serious_.

  
"I was serious, Lex," he said. "We need to - "

  
Lex waved him off, pushing himself to his feet, lithe body cutting though the air.

  
"Yes, yes, we'll talk, Clark. I'll spill all my dirty secrets and we'll act like girls."

  
Lex started to leave the room, and Clark stumbled to his feet, following closely.

  
"And you're okay with this?" Clark asked incredulously. "_You_?"

  
Lex looked sheepish for a moment, lowered his gaze to the ground, his steps slowing for  
just a hitch before he turned back to catch Clark's gaze.

  
"I'm okay with knowing the what, and not the how," he said very carefully.

  
There was a long, resigned silence.

  
"I'll tell you," Clark said, "soon."

  
Lex nodded, and it was not the same angry, grudging acceptance that he had always  
provided in the past. Rather, it was anticipatory, relaxed, given a lifetime guarantee,  
since Lex had faith in Clark, and Clark couldn't bear to disappoint him.

  
They were rounding out a corner when Lex pointed to a bathroom.

  
"I've got frozen peas in the fridge downstairs," Lex said casually.

  
Clark gasped. "You - you - "

  
"You know, for _puffiness_," Lex drawled.

  
Clark huffed, glared, and stormed into the bathroom, shutting the door loudly.

  
It was a long time before he heard, over the sound of rushing water:

  
"I'm okay with not losing you, Clark."

*****

  
"I've never liked semicolons, either," Clark said solemnly.

  
"I agree," Lex said enthusiastically.

  
"Suspicious little jerks," Clark added.

  
"Absolutely! They're pointless," Lex concluded. "If you're finishing a thought, then use  
a period. If it's an incomplete clause, use a comma. Why invent semicolons, anyway?  
It's for the indecisive, Clark."

  
Clark bit the inside of his mouth. "You're totally right. I can't believe anyone could be  
that stupid, Lex. Semicolons are obviously the first sign that Western civilization is  
going to disintegrate," he said.

  
Lex scowled. "You wanted to talk."

  
"About _semicolons_?" Clark asked.

  
"You _don't take off points for grammar in a lab report_!" Lex argued over Clark's  
laughter, Lex's cheeks flushing hot in embarrassed rage. "It's just _not right_!"

  
Clark managed to stem his exceedingly unmanly giggles and Lex settled on a narroweyed  
expression that conveyed his perfect disgust with Clark's lack of empathy.

  
Two hours ago, they'd somehow turned Lex's den into the scene of a slumber party.  
They'd gone to the kitchen, raided it for junk food and sodas, and brought it all upstairs  
along with loads of fluffy pillows from the guest rooms down the hall. They were  
camped out on the floor in front of the fireplace, which roared and flickered, crackling  
very loudly in the background. Lex was sprawled out against his couch, three enormous  
cushions forming a backrest against the sofa leg and Clark was laying on his stomach, a  
large throw pillow tucked underneath his chest, his elbows propping him up.

  
In two hours, Clark had found that Lex could grow sad and animated and laugh as easily  
as anyone else, and that Lex wasn't some sort of demigod at all. Lex was as fallible and  
human as anyone Clark had ever met.

  
Also - Lex didn't understand the concept of a semicolon, apparently.

  
"Punk," Lex muttered darkly.

  
Clark just grinned.

  
They sat in silence for a while before Clark asked, "Why did you leave Yale?"

  
Lex eyes darkened. "My father sent for me."

  
"You don't listen to your father," Clark said automatically, since it was true.

  
Lex smiled ruefully. "True, Clark. But he made sure I had nowhere to go."

  
Clark looked confused for a moment. "I don't understand."

  
Lex heaved a sigh and turned toward the fire, eyes distant, as if he could only talk about  
this if he pretended no one was really listening. This was one of those things, Clark  
realized, that hurt Lex deeply. It was the look on Lex's face when he talked about his  
mother, when he talked about Pamela, when he asked Clark for the truth that Clark  
couldn't give him.

  
"By the time I was in Yale, I wanted nothing to do with my father," Lex started. "I had  
forty percent of LuthorCorp's stock, and the trust fund my mother had set up for me  
kicked in at twenty-one. I was already wealthy beyond your wildest dreams, and I had  
ambition, had it in great, decadent excess. I wanted a lab; I wanted to make great leaps in  
science. I wanted to rule the world, and I wanted to do it away from my father."

  
Lex's voice was lazy, tired, resigned.

  
"The thing was, I needed a new reputation and a degree before all of it could come to  
pass. I needed the knowledge that college was giving me, and I respected that, in fact, I  
was thrilled by it. For the first time in my life, something seemed to make sense. So I  
worked hard, I cleaned up. I didn't want to _be_ 'Lex Luthor' for the rest of my life. I  
was going to..." Lex closed his eyes tightly and swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing.  
"I was going to forge a destiny away from my father's legacy," he whispered.

  
There was a long silence, and Clark waited.

  
"Do you know what you get kicked out of college for, Clark?" He didn't wait for an  
answer before he continued. "Drinking on a dry campus, two or three times, at least at  
some schools." Lex paused. "Or, for cheating."

  
Clark's eyes widened.

  
"It became apparent to my father, after hearing that several of his competitors had already  
approached me after my freshman year with job packages or offers for capital, that if he  
let me linger there unattended, that I was going to do something dramatic. Like work for  
someone else. Or worse yet, myself." Lex chuckled. "He called, he cajoled, he offered  
me gifts and pretty things: women, cars, flowery promises. He tried to manipulate me,  
even attempted to drag my mother's memory into it."

  
Lex smirked.

  
"There was a terrible scandal, Clark," Lex said, and there was an edge in his voice, "over  
an organic chemistry exam in Professor Hack's class that year. And by the time that the  
smoke had cleared and the dust settled, I was fingered for cheating. My reputation was  
destroyed. Within the week, I was expelled from Yale, and the story was filtered through  
to every major pharmaceutical or research organization in the Western hemisphere. All  
the offers that had been made before were withdrawn."

  
Lex looked at the ground.

  
"I had nowhere else to go, and no prospects. Independently wealthy or not, I didn't have  
enough to start on my plans. The added bonus of lacking the extensive education needed  
for the project was just a perfect twist of the knife. Especially since no university would  
_touch_ me after that. My father came to console me, of course, and promised to keep it  
out of the papers if I promised to behave. I was on my way to Smallville in the same  
week."

  
Clark felt his jaw drop.

  
He'd always understood on one level or another that Lionel Luthor would do _anything_  
to maintain control over Lex. That much was clear simply from the course of events:,  
from Lex's arrival in Smallville to when Lionel had attempted to take Lex back to  
Metropolis to when Lionel had decided to close the plant. Every move, every action  
Lionel took in relation to Lex seemed to have the same basic intention: to make sure Lex  
was fully in Lionel's control.

  
Clark just hadn't realized the extent to which Lionel was willing to go.

  
As if destroying his son's life was...was _tangential_ to the grand scheme of things.

  
"I'm so sorry," he finally whispered, seeing Lex turn to him.

  
Lex's eyes were a tired gray, but they glimmered with _something_.

  
"So am I," Lex admitted softly.

  
Clark felt sick. He wanted to find Lionel and strangle that bastard.

  
"But," he started, hopeful, "but there's a silver lining. Sort of."

  
Lex looked at him expectantly.

  
"You," Clark started nervously, and felt stupid since in comparison, a lab and Lex's life  
ambition was _so much better_ than what his perpetual cheerfulness had to offer. "I'm  
sorry about _why_ you had to come here, Lex," he finally said. "But I'm glad you came.  
Otherwise, I wouldn't have ever met you, and - and you're the best friend I've ever had,"  
Clark breathed, daring to look up.

  
Lex's eyes were soft. "That's definitely a silver lining," he murmured.

  
Clark blushed. "I'm sorry. The lab would have been better."

  
Lex waved his hand dismissively, smiling at Clark now. "I have a lab. And I have you.  
The best friend I've ever had."

  
Clark grinned, and Lex grinned back.

  
It wasn't all okay. Not yet. But it was getting there, and that much was apparent.

  
"I wonder," Lex murmured forty minutes later.

  
"About what?" Clark asked lazily, too intoxicated with the easy company to be alert.

  
Lex smiled broadly. "Will the talk about _you_ be as revealing?"

  
Clark felt no jolt of fear, no need to run from or duck the conversation. It was inevitable,  
he knew now, that he would come completely clean with Lex. It was all a matter of  
timing, just a matter of scheduling. He was waiting for something significant, and he  
wasn't sure what yet, but it would happen, and then he and Lex would do this thing again,  
with pillows and popcorn and Pepsi. They'd sit in front of the big fire.

  
"Oh, it'll be worth your while," Clark said.

  
"I'm holding you to that," Lex quipped. "And if all you've got is a secret case of ADHD,  
we're not going to be friends anymore, you understand."

  
Clark laughed and stared into the fire.

*****

  
His mother was waiting for him when he got home.

  
Clark's footsteps seemed terribly loud in the empty kitchen, and faced with his mother's  
face, stony and solemn, he felt as if he'd done something wrong, when in fact everything  
had just been set right again. Or at least on its path there.

  
He glanced at the clock, which told him it was nearly ten.

  
His initial instinct to run in terror was immediately shut down when Martha Kent looked  
up at him with resigned blue eyes and said, "Sit down."

  
He did, woodenly.

  
"Your father's still doing the last round of chores," she reported.

  
Clark nodded eagerly. "I did mine before I left this afternoon. Really, Mom. And I told  
you where I was going, and that I'd miss dinner."

  
His mother smiled at him, and reached one hand over to press it over his own  
comfortingly. His shoulders relaxed and he felt his breathing regulate again. She gave  
him the half-pitying, half-amused expression she always did when he misinterpreted  
something horribly.

  
"Clark, I'm not _mad_ at you, honey," she said reassuringly.

  
He let out a long, grateful breath. "_Oh_."

  
The expression receded though, and Martha Kent leveled him with a stare.

  
"Clark," she started.

  
"Yeah, Mom?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

  
"You were at Lex's, I assume?" she asked quietly.

  
He felt panicked, like he knew something bad was about to happen. But Clark had never  
had very good intuition anyway, and no sense of self-preservation, so if some vestigial  
lizard-brain was just kicking into gear, Clark thought it was a little too late for that.

  
"Yeah, Mom. I told you I was going there. Are you okay?"

  
"I'm fine, Clark. Just - " She smiled at him bravely. "You're there a lot, huh?"

  
It was a stupid question.

  
Clark shrugged as casually as he could manage, banishing all of his confusing thoughts,  
the midnights spent and wasted overanalyzing every detail, driving himself mad. "Not as  
much as I used to be. Lex is a lot busier now than when we just met." He frowned.  
"Mom, are you _sure_ you're all right?"

  
His mom chewed on her lower lip, as if debating with herself, and finally just forced  
herself to look up, forced herself into the conversation she obviously didn't want to have.

  
"Clark, what is Lex Luthor to you?" she asked, point-blank.

  
"He's my best friend," Clark said, automatic.

  
The question was frequent, often worded differently, but always hanging on everyone's  
mind. Why did Clark Kent, son of organic farmers, hang around with Lex Luthor, scion  
of the world's largest pesticide producer? Shouldn't they have been bearing arms at one  
another, hissing and fighting and drawing blood - even just on _principle_? Pete asked,  
Chloe asked, Lana asked, even Clark's lab partner in tenth grade had asked. "Why are  
you two even _friends_?" Dana had muttered, brown eyes wide and curious, bearing  
really nasty sort of innuendo that Clark hadn't liked.

  
His mother studied him. "That so?"

  
Clark nodded. He felt oddly detached.

  
"Has Lex," his mom started, hesitating. "Has Lex ever made you uncomfortable, Clark?"

  
Clark knit his brow. Had Lex ever made him _uncomfortable_?

  
Lex made him confused. Lex made him feel like more than just a small town farm kid.  
Lex made him happy. Lex made him feel vulnerable. Lex made him angry, enraged, so  
mad and hateful that Clark thought he was going to go blind from frustration or grief.  
Lex made Clark feel possessed, surrendered, dependent and happily so, like Lex held the  
keys to all of Clark's more dangerous emotions, and Clark _liked_ being provoked.

  
Lex made Clark sexually ambiguous.

  
"Uncomfortable?" he parroted.

  
She looked at the table. "Has he ever said anything, or done anything that..."

  
She trailed off.

  
In her voice, Clark realized, was the same ugly implication he'd heard for three years.

  
A flare of white-hot anger that coursed through him every time he heard it:, mild  
condescension, equally weighed with disgust, morbid curiosity.

  
"Why?" he managed to bite out. He heard the edge of the table crack, the wood  
splintered. He hadn't even noticed he'd been gripping it, but the sound of audible  
breaking made his mother jump in her seat.

  
She was quiet before saying, "Principle Reynolds called a few days ago, Clark. I didn't  
say anything at first but... He said - he said that Lex had picked you up in front of all  
your friends and that - "

  
"And?" Clark asked, his voice ice cold.

  
He'd always felt protective of Lex.

  
Mortal, misunderstood Lex, who didn't have one inclination toward self-preservation in  
his body, who went for the adrenaline high, wanted the rush, and did everything crazy  
and stupid better than anyone else in the world. Lex, whose sensibility in all things  
business or private never extended toward himself. Lex, who didn't understand the  
concept of "laying low." Lex had survived his teens through a combination of dumb  
luck, medical miracles, and his father's influences. Now, Lex lived day to day under  
Clark's watchful eye. Smallville had given Lex too many bruises, broken ribs, close  
calls, and concussions. It was one thing to protect someone from self-destruction, quite  
another and much more manageable to stop the latest meteor mutant from kidnapping  
one's best friend and attempting to either kill/blackmail/or mate with him.

  
All that time, Clark had never felt that he needed to protect Lex from Clark's mother.

  
His mother's face was panicking, color high on her cheeks, and she looked desperately  
embarrassed, horrified to be talking about this, and looked as much the part of a  
distressed betrayer as Clark felt betrayed.

  
"It just - it _looks_ suspicious, Clark," his mother tried, voice tiny. "He's so much older  
than you, and his reputation... Look, I was in town today and people were...they were  
saying some really ugly things, Clark."

  
His mother sounded as if she was about to cry, like she was torn between the visceral  
urge to _trust_ him, and the maternal inclination to keep him safe, keep him clean.

  
And Lex's past was so, so dirty.

  
It was what was whispered in between cups of bland coffee at the Talon, what Lana  
probably wondered when she'd said, "You two are close." It was what Chloe probably  
spent nights questioning, instead of the nature of love. It was the reason that his father  
hated Lex with such passion; beyond the Luthor name, there was the Luthor debauchery  
that Lex must have been lathing on Clark's innocent mind. It was the reason that Clark  
felt that inexplicable and altogether _necessary_ flush on his cheeks every time Lex  
surprised him from a shadow, emerged from a crowd, smiled with a question behind it.

  
It was the _reason_ that Clark was always so flustered, terribly confused around Lex.

  
Was it because _Lex_ was doing something to him? Warping his mind, touching him  
inappropriately? Feeding him lecherous, sinful lies or showing him bad things?

  
No -

  
No, Lex made Clark _want_ them, independently.

  
Made Clark want to run his tongue against the ridge of Lex's spine, taste the pale skin of  
his neck, press his mouth to every inch of flesh. Made Clark flash back to the riverbank,  
press his fingertips to his lips, and try to remember how Lex tasted beneath the dirty river  
water, beneath the panic and death. Made Clark look at Lana and kiss ambivalently,.  
Made everything so much more difficult. Made Clark what he really wanted to be all  
along -

  
Nakedly honest.

  
Because while the desire to reveal all had been there his entire life, it had been so  
suppressed by indoctrination and reflex that it took a car accident and terrified teenaged  
self-realization to come to terms with the fact that maybe all those too-close moments,  
brushes and more-than-simply-this smiles were leading to something. Because it took  
three years before Clark figured out that while every opportunity had been afforded,  
every chance and even every high (worldly or meteor rock induced) had been given, had  
helped strip him of his inhibitions, the _one thing_ that stayed constant was his intangible  
_need_ to make Lex _feel something_, and not Lana, at all.

  
Clark could fight it, could deny it, could scream and rage and break Lex's heart to a  
thousand slivers, and it would always come back. He would pretend to want things, ask  
for advice, complain about inane problems, but it came back to the simple fact that Clark  
would come back.

  
Clark was a compass, he could be anywhere in the world, and Lex would always be  
north.

  
Always be home base. Always the point of destination and inclination.

  
And that was a realization that Clark couldn't examine in his mother's kitchen.

  
"_You_ taught me not to believe in rumors," Clark said furiously. "And I know Lex  
better than anyone who spreads that crap. I don't care what anyone's saying, or what they  
think that we're - that _he's_ doing to me - "

  
"Clark, you're too young to _know_ \- "

  
That was just the problem now: he wasn't anymore.

  
He didn't know what he was doing, just registered the distant sound of a kitchen chair  
falling to the ground and the slam of a door.

*****

  
He needed time to think about it, really _look_ at the situation.

  
So Clark spent the next day and a half avoiding his parents, hiding in the Fortress or  
wherever available whenever he was able. He couldn't face his mother or father, and a  
horrible silence had descended all over the Kent farmhouse.

  
It was Thursday evening by the time that Clark let himself try it.

  
Just an experiment.

  
All those years picturing girls, and those dreams that made him come harder than he  
knew he _could_ put together a pretty clear picture of what was the problem. Why when  
Lana had been stripped down to lacy red underwear his only reaction had been horrified  
wonderment and worry. Why he'd _really liked_ that lawyer from the movie. Why Lex  
was possibly the most fascinating thing in the whole universe.

  
And, for that matter, why he thought Lex was _hot_.

  
So he let his mind drift, unleashed himself.

  
It was Friday morning by the time he opened his eyes and muttered:

  
"Oh, God. Just great."

*****

  
It took a long time for Clark to think about who he'd tell his newest secret, and it shocked  
him that it seemed to be of greater consequence than his origins. Smallville was meteor  
central, so the sudden appearance of alien life was probably more acceptable than  
homosexuality.

  
Clark looked into the sky and though of the cornfield, remembering being the scarecrow  
at homecoming that year, meteor rock hanging around his neck, stripped to his boxers  
and in pain, thinking it was as close to dead as he'd ever be. The football team had been  
doing it for years, but just a few months before that, some kid had the same thing happen  
to him, only it had been a hate crime, splashed all over the news. Chloe had done Torch  
special on it, citing the Crows' yearly ritual as that exact sort of homophobic, hate-filled  
behavior.

  
Clark remembered being humiliated, _wishing_ for the death that seemed eventual at that  
point. And he remembered headlights off in the distance, the rustle of corn leaves and  
naked skin emerging out of the endless, mocking green. He remembered shocked blue  
eyes, terror-quick hands saving him.

  
And he remembered Lex.

  
Compass points.

  
"I think I'm gay," he managed.

  
There was a long breathy silence. "_What_?"

  
Clark looked at the clock in the gas station, narrowing his eyes and shifting his head to  
see past the glare of the glass. The too-bright lighting of the station made his eyes hurt.  
He wanted dark, and he consoled himself, told himself that as soon as he made this phone  
call, unloaded on someone, he'd disappear back into the Kansas fields, lay in the  
blackness and be unseen.

  
It was three in the morning.

  
"Gay," Clark repeated, his voice shaking.

  
It was crunch time. Lex said that he would be okay with it. There was the rustle of  
sheets, and Clark had to fight his immediate reaction to thinking of Lex in bed.

  
"Gay?" Lex asked, more asleep than awake.

  
Clark nodded, though Lex couldn't see it. "Yes, I think so."

  
"As in, you're sexually and romantically attracted to men. Exclusively," Lex managed.

  
Clark vowed to himself, in some distant part of his fevered mind, to find out how Lex  
managed to use big words after having been abruptly woken with really disturbing news  
at three in the morning. It was part of the mystique of Lex.

  
"Yes. No. Maybe. Look, I'm all turned around right now," Clark stuttered.

  
"It's not," Lex started, sounding disoriented. "It's not some exclusive _club_, Clark. It's  
not community membership. I'm not going to stop being your friend if you're straight.  
Just because _I_ like men doesn't mean you have to, you understand this concept, right?"

  
Clark flushed. "I'm not _stupid_, Lex."

  
"I'm just checking." More rustling and long breaths. "Jesus, Clark."

  
He wound the phone cord around his fingertip and stared off into the dark sky, the  
faintest edges of moonlight blossoming around the outline of the derelict gas station. It  
was Old Man Rudy's place, and Jack Rudy had worked it his entire life. Everyone in  
Smallville got gas there, and Jack sold everyone liquor, whether or not they could even  
see over the counter. Jack was a dying breed of Confederate, and the locals of Smallville  
tolerated him out of charity and a desire for cheap gas.

  
Jack Rudy was also senile and asleep in a puddle of his own spit on the counter.

  
Which was why Clark figured that declaring his sexuality in the middle of a gas station in  
the middle of small town USA in the middle of the Bible belt in the middle of a *mental  
breakdown* would be okay.

  
"Look," Lex finally said. "You're very confused right now."

  
At least we agree on that, Clark thought. "Yeah. Lex, I need to talk to someone."

  
"And we'll talk. I promise," Lex said smoothly. "But it's three in the morning, and  
you're...where the hell are you? You're not calling from your house, are you?"

  
Clark laughed. Right. Like he could do this at _home_.

  
"I'm at a gas station," he said. "I ran out earlier."

  
Lex sighed. "Which explains why your dad delivered my produce today. Clark, you - "

  
"I'm not going home," he interrupted.

  
Clark couldn't even fathom the thought of returning to his house, the look on his mother's  
face, the look on his father's. They'd be worried, in that abstract way that all parents were  
worried despite knowing that there was nothing that could hurt their children wherever  
they were. They'd be angry he'd run out. Then they'd be supportive, ask him questions,  
try to talk him through his latest crisis. Was it a new power? Had something happened  
with Lana? Did he fight with Lex? We're sorry, Clark, how can we make it better?

  
He didn't even know what was wrong in his own head, and he couldn't _do that_ with his  
folks, couldn't work through it with his parents in the room. His mom would be  
devastated, and his father would have a nuclear meltdown.

  
The Kent's son? Gay? Of _course_ not. Hiram would be spinning in his grave.

  
"You can't stay at a gas station overnight," Lex lectured in his best Adult Voice. "Go  
home, Clark. I'll meet you tomorrow and we'll talk, okay? Look, I can pick you up at the  
Talon, and we'll - "

  
"I can't," Clark managed. "Look, Lex, this is big for me. I can't go home. I don't want to  
face them now." He took a deep breath. "Can I come over? Please?"

  
There was a long silence over the line, and Clark saw a thousand different variations of  
the future in that instant. It was a Very Important Moment, and he could feel it, more  
tangibly than anything, heavy like a fog, and Clark was having trouble breathing as he  
waited for Lex's answer.

  
Lex breathed, a whoosh of air into the line. "I'm - I'm not sure that's a good idea, Clark."

  
"Why not?" he asked desperately. "You're my best friend. You have to help me."

  
Lex laughed, scared and slightly crazy. "Yeah, I know. And I always will be, but Clark,  
I don't want to - I don't want to ruin things. I just, I don't know if that's a good idea."

  
"_Please_," Clark whispered.

  
He didn't know why his pulse was racing so much, or how it could escalate even further.  
He was sure that his heart was going to burst its way out of his chest soon.

  
Didn't Lex _get_ it?

  
Another long sigh. And it sounded resigned.

  
"Okay, Clark," Lex finally murmured. "Come over. We'll talk."

  
What was unspoken, and what Clark heard the most loudly of all: I'll be good. I promise.

*****

  
Lex opened the door before Clark got a chance to knock.

  
He looked wild, like if he had hair, it would be sticking up in all directions. He was  
dressed dove-gray silk pajama bottoms, and a blue shirt that had obviously just been  
tossed on. His eyes were haunted, and he didn't ask how Clark had gotten from a gas  
station to Luthor manor in under three minutes.

  
"It was the porn," he said triumphantly as he steered Clark toward the third floor den.

  
Clark blinked, seeing shadows across old stone. "_What_?"

  
"The _porn_, Clark," Lex said, sounding manic. They were ascending the ugly staircase,  
and Clark realized that the difference between the architecture and Lex's movement was  
more pronounced than ever. "The skinflick that you stumbled on at my apartment, in  
Metropolis? Don't you remember?"

  
_Of course_ Clark remembered, but he didn't see what the relevance was, so he told Lex  
exactly that as he was being forced to sit down in the large leather sofa. Lex paced back  
and forth in front of him, as if _he_ was the one with a traumatic revelation.

  
"You're confused," Lex said. "You had a _physical_ reaction to what you saw on the  
porn, and you're over thinking it, Clark," Lex babbled. "You're thinking about it too  
much, which I understand since I've been there. All teenagers tend to do it, anyway. But  
the point is that you had a _physical_ reaction to what you saw and you're trying to give  
it an _emotional_ origin and Clark, you don't have to, it's perfectly normal to just - "

  
"It wasn't the porn," Clark protested.

  
"It _was_ the porn," Lex retorted. "Either that, or..." he trailed off, and looked away.

  
"Or what?" Clark asked, deathly quiet.

  
"Either that or it's me," Lex said finally, in a damning tone. "Either that or I've, I've come  
on too strong or I've said things or done things or behaved in a way that confused you,  
put too much stress on you. Clark, you don't - you don't _know_ that you're gay."

  
Clark was _far_ more interested in the "come on too strong" part of Lex's almost  
incoherent blather, but he had to at least counter that last sentiment before he got on to  
the more interesting things.

  
"Yes, I do," Clark said. "I get off thinking about guys. That's pretty clear."

  
Lex bit his lip. "_Clark_."

  
"You said you'd be okay with it," Clark accused, feeling panic overwhelm.

  
Lex's eyes widened, and he dropped to a crouch in front of Clark, so that Clark could see  
down the open collar of his shirt, see the skin beneath that just begged to be stroked,  
sucked, kissed red and bruised with wanting.

  
Clark swallowed hard.

  
That was the other thing.

  
Clark had spent an entire _night_ fantasizing about movie actors, famous people, and that  
one cute guy at school. And that had all been fun and stimulating, remarkably effective  
now that Clark was jerking off to the _correct_ gender for his sexuality. But the darkest  
dreams, the deepest moments, and the instants that meant more and had the greatest  
impact were all about Lex. All about familiar half-smiles and slow conversation, about  
Lex's voice whispering in his ears and Lex's _hands_. The smell of Lex's skin and  
imagining how Lex would taste and feel over him, under him, beside him.

  
All life's lusts, Clark found, were calling for Lex.

  
But it meant more, was dangerous, because Lex was Clark's best friend. And Clark was  
realizing with every passing moment that the low, heady vibration he felt in the back of  
his mind and in the hollows of his heart when Lex was around, or when Lex smiled,  
wasn't simply brotherly affection or some bizarre offshoot of lust.

  
It was something of greater consequence.

  
"I _am_ okay with it, Clark," Lex said hastily. "I'm not - Jesus, Clark - I'm not angry  
with you or disgusted or anything. But I don't want you _rushing_ into any sort of  
decision because of a dirty movie or because of something _I_ did or - "

  
"I'm not rushing into anything," Clark finally said, looking away. "This has been  
building. For ages. I just...I just finally came out to myself last night."

  
Lex stared at him and didn't move a muscle.

  
Clark gulped, and felt his hand move of its own volition, pressing his brown fingers  
against Lex's cheek. And Lex flushed suddenly at the contact, trembled.

  
"Clark," he murmured, and it sounded like a sob.

  
"Can I kiss you?" Clark whispered.

  
"Oh, _God_ \- "

  
And he didn't wait for permission, because he'd waited for everything _else_ already, and  
he wanted _something_ to be easy for once. So he just leaned in and pressed his mouth  
against Lex's, inexperienced lips hard against Lex's oh-so-soft mouth. It was a closemouthed  
kiss, the type longtime lovers gave one another sweetly, slowly, gently, just  
enjoying the closeness.

  
A sudden, violent noise came from Lex's throat, and he shoved himself away, stood up  
abruptly, gasping for breath. He looked pale, shaken, discomfited.

  
Clark was dizzy, and he felt hot all over, he felt sexy and sticky.

  
"Can't _do this_, Clark," Lex whispered.

  
Okay, Clark thought. "Okay," he said.

  
"Do you - do you understand _why_ this can't happen? Do you get why - "

  
It was starting to sink in. Beyond the taste of Lex's mouth. Beyond the shimmering  
perfection of those thirty seconds of closeness. Beyond the sweetness in that instant.  
Beyond Clark's teenaged hormones and lovestruck mind -

  
He'd been _so stupid_.

  
Why would Lex want him? Why would Lex even give him a _second glance_?

  
He needed to leave. Desperately. He couldn't go home. He couldn't stay. Clark didn't  
know what exactly he'd been expecting by going to Lex's and - oh, _God_ \- _kissing_ his  
best friend, but it sure as hell wasn't leading to shredded clothes and sex. Maybe he could  
go to Chloe's. Chloe would understand. In fact, Chloe would probably feed him  
chocolate and let him watch old movies with her.

  
He tried to get up but realized he was paralyzed.

  
Lex was still standing in front of him, looking like he'd lost his grip on reality.

  
"I'm sorry," Clark said automatically: habit, reflex, necessity. "I didn't - I'm sorry, Lex."

  
Lex swallowed hard. "Clark - that's not what I - "

  
"I - I won't bother you anymore," Clark whispered.

  
He couldn't see properly. He was having trouble breathing. He wanted to throw up, and  
cry, and run to his mother. His chest hurt really badly, and he wondered crazily if there  
was meteor rock in the room, because he didn't think that he could have a heart attack.

  
He was going to die. Right there. On Lex Luthor's couch.

  
"Oh for Christ's sake, Clark," Lex snapped, still standing awkwardly in front of him,  
looking extremely agitated. "I'm in love with you, all right? I have been since you were  
sixteen years old."

  
Clark's head rocketed up, his eyes wide like dinner plates as he took in Lex's earnest  
expression, honesty tempered with a bubbling panic.

  
"It's just that - God. Do you _realize_ how _young_ you are?" Lex asked.

  
Clark blinked. "What?"

  
Lex frowned. "Clark," he said disapprovingly. "You're seventeen."

  
"So?" Clark asked, mystified.

  
Lex was in love with him. Which was perfect, since Clark was in love with Lex, too.

  
Maybe, there _would_ be sex after all.

  
"_So_?" Lex said incredulously. "You're - you're jailbait, Clark!" he roared. "If I so  
much as _touch_ you, I get tossed in prison for about a dozen charges! That's _if_ your  
father doesn't shoot me first."

  
Or...not.

  
Clark stared at Lex, and tried to process everything that had just happened.

  
"I'm gay," Clark said.

  
"You _think_ you're gay," Lex countered.

  
"I'm _gay_," Clark insisted. "And you're in love with me."

  
"You _think_ you're gay, and you're a minor. So it doesn't matter," Lex muttered.

  
"I _am_ gay, you're in love with me, and I love you too," Clark said.

  
Lex looked like he wanted to say something, but snapped his mouth shut.

  
Clark added up all the numbers, examined it from several angles, and brightened.

  
"Can I kiss you again?" he asked.

  
"_No_!" Lex yelled. "_Clark_!"

  
"Jesus, sorry!" he yelped.

  
Lex glared at him for a long time before sighing and sitting down across from him in a  
leather wingback chair. He crossed his arms over his thin chest and brooded.

  
Clark was feeling lighthearted, remarkably so. He could definitely see the negatives in  
the situation (perhaps not as lucidly as Lex, though), and he could tell that the road ahead  
had a few nightmarish hairpin turns. But from his vantage point, two facts were the most  
important and they overshadowed all the other points of interference: he loved Lex, and  
Lex loved him back.

  
"Can we go on a date?" Clark asked.

  
Lex sighed. "No. Clark, have you actually _thought_ about the consequences of this?"

  
Clark frowned. He didn't want to _think_ about consequences. Consequences were  
messy, they complicated things. Besides, wasn't that what being a teenager was all  
about? Zero consequences? "I don't want to," he admitted.

  
Lex smiled darkly.

  
"Picture this, Clark. Me, splashed across the front page of every newspaper and  
magazine in the country in handcuffs, really _interesting_ names for child molester being  
used as synonymous with Lex Luthor for various headlines and captions while I'm  
charged and convicted with statutory rape as well as sodomy and contributing to the  
delinquency of a minor."

  
Clark winced. "Lex, stop it."

  
"Also, think of reporters parked four deep around your farm, taking pictures and  
harassing you to the point where you can't leave your property; in fact, you can't even  
leave the house. You're thinking of putting blackout curtains on your windows to keep  
them from peeking in, too. The local priest drops by to counsel you about having been  
'led astray' by the Luthor devil, and your parents cry and talk about how they tried their  
best to raise you right, by good, old-fashioned, all-American standards."

  
"Lex, _stop_," Clark said, his voice rising.

  
"And the best part, Clark. Remember being the scarecrow at homecoming? That'll seem  
like _nothing_ compared to what will happen if you actually go through with this - "

  
"Lex, _shut up_!"

  
They looked at one another desperately for a moment.

  
It was so senseless that Clark wanted to scream. To be so close, to touch but not hold.  
And Clark _knew_ how fragile and rare love was. Maybe that's what fate had been trying  
to tell him all along: first with the Hatfield-Berscheid experiments, then with his mother,  
then the night in Metropolis with Lex. Everything could fall apart in the blink of an eye,  
and all that sustained was the _hope_ for something better, optimism in emotion.

  
And Clark was really starting to get it.

  
He'd have to fight for this, work for every inch of it.

  
He was ready, he could do it. Lex was worth it. _He_ was worth it.

  
"So what happens next?" Clark asked, voice shaking.

  
Lex released a long breath.

  
"That all depends," Lex started, "on how you handle the consequences."

*****

  
Epilogue

*****

  
October was misty, hazy with orange sunlight.

  
The annual Smallville Harvest Festival was in full swing, with twinkling strings of lights,  
booths tacked together out of spare wood and bursting with corn husk dolls, games, toys,  
crafts, and food. More pies and cakes, cookies and ice creams, chilies and strange things  
than Clark had ever eaten or _wanted_ to eat in his entire life. People rushed around  
cheerfully, laughing at one another and spending money that they had better things to do  
with since it was tradition.

  
Clark had begged off duty at his mother's pie booth, since business was really taking care  
of itself. His father had given him a long, considering look, and turned away.

  
It was still bad. It could be worse, was what Chloe told him to think.

  
Dusk was gorgeous, Clark reflected, sitting on the platform, carefully avoiding loops of  
wire and three speakers already up on the stage. In just two hours, Smallville's finest  
bands and dancers would line up and perform up there, shaming the entire idea of  
entertainment, but up to the challenge because it was _Smallville_, and what else was  
there to do for fun around there, anyway?

  
"Happy birthday, Clark."

  
He turned around, smile beaming. "Lex!"

  
A long, lithe body settled next to him on the platform, faint smile playing at the corners  
of lips that Clark had longed for months to kiss, months to taste again. Their thighs  
pressed together, and Clark let the heat melt into his body, warm him from the core. Lex  
leaned back casually, holding himself up on two arms and looking out into the bustling  
activity of Smallville with a tolerant amusement.

  
"I registered to vote today," Clark told him, eyes twinkling.

  
Lex turned to him and stared, mouth open for half a beat before laughing loudly.

  
"_Clark_!" Lex finally managed. "I was _joking_."

  
"I _know that_," Clark complained.

  
And he did, intellectually. That hadn't, however, stopped him from being the first person  
in line at the DMV that morning for voter registration.

  
Six months had passed, miserably slowly, and Clark had spent most of that time easing  
his friends into the truth about his sexuality, and convincing his father to stop hating him.  
He'd given up trying to ignore that flash of disappointment that he caught in his mother's  
eyes every time, just before she put on her brave face. He didn't try to sway his parents  
that Lex was a good friend at the dinner table anymore, since it would only start  
arguments about how Lex had been the cause of it all.

  
For once, Clark didn't have a counter; it _was_ true.

  
But he had the feeling that if Lex hadn't appeared in his life, he'd be living it as a lie.

  
Six months of Lana avoiding him. Six months of Chloe warming up to him, since if he  
was _gay_, then obviously, she wasn't his type and it wasn't anybody's fault or anything.  
Six months of Pete pulling away, ever so slowly but ever so clearly. Six months of being  
sad and terrified and nauseated and so confused, like his world was shattering and he was  
having to piece it back together.

  
Lex had told him that night at the castle, afraid and exhausted, that if Clark could stand it,  
if he could really _do this_, then he would have to wait. He'd have to see if he could deal  
with Smallville's reaction, his parents' reaction, his friends' reactions. And if Clark _still_  
wanted it after everything - then...

  
Well, Lex had made all sorts of promises with his eyes.

  
Which Clark fully intended to collect on, since he'd learned over those same six months  
that what his parents thought of him, what Smallville thought of him, what his friends  
thought of him didn't change how he thought of Lex one bit.

  
Smallville wasn't forever, he knew very clearly, but Lex was.

  
And today was his birthday. Countdown over.

  
"I want to write my name on you," Clark said suddenly.

  
Lex blinked twice. "Excuse me?"

  
"I want everyone to know," Clark continued, flushing darkly, "that you're..."

  
Lex let a smile come across his features. "That I'm what?"

  
"You're mine," Clark said, with a feverish blush. He paused. "Right?"

  
Lex had made his feelings pretty clear six months ago. But still, six months was twentyfour  
weeks, which was a very large number of days and hours and minutes and seconds,  
the exact figures of which Clark had counted up once in a fit of miserable not-legal-ness,  
and promptly forgotten the next day.

  
"I'm the _world's_, Clark," Lex said dramatically. "But large portions of me are yours."

  
Clark rolled his eyes, but couldn't keep the smile from his face. Just like Lex. Just like  
_his_ Lex, or the parts of Lex that were his, anyway.

  
It was going to be hell, Clark knew, until he could get out of that town. It was going to  
be terrible every day to see his father's grieved expression and his mother's barely-veiled  
anger. It was going to be a fight to go to school every day after everyone knew, which  
they were bound to, since he had decided he wasn't going to _hide_ himself any longer.

  
It was going to be bad, but it was also going to get better.

  
Because eventually, Clark would be in somewhere far away, where people didn't treat  
homosexuality like psychology did in the 1960s. Eventually, his father was going to  
learn to deal with it like he'd dealt with all of Clark's powers. Eventually, his mother  
would see all the beautiful, wonderful, brilliant things in Lex that Clark loved so much  
about him and love Lex, too. Eventually, she'd stop being angry. And eventually, Clark  
would stop going to Smallville High School, and he wouldn't have to tell himself to be  
brave before stepping out to face the day.

  
"So," Lex started casually, his left arm moving until his fingers covered Clark's. "How  
does it feel to be eighteen?" he asked.

  
Clark smiled at the feeling of Lex's palm over his hand.

  
He pretended to be thoughtful. "Well, I feel legal. And surprisingly unmolested."

  
Lex laughed, free and easy and bright.

  
"Well," Lex said, low and throaty, "we can't have that."

  
Clark's breath caught in his throat. "No. Terrible shame. We should do something about  
that." He gasped as he felt Lex rub his thigh purposefully and slowly against his own, in  
front of everyone, sitting on a _stage_. "Like, right now," he managed to choke out.

  
Lex smiled enigmatically, staring at the Harvest Fair. "I don't know, Clark. This _is_  
Smallville tradition, and you're always telling me to be more social with my employees.  
Why, I see dozens of them wandering around this place right now."

  
"You can be social later," Clark said frantically. "Employee Christmas party. Lots of  
drinks. A fake Santa. It'll be great. Right now, we should go and - "

  
Dear _God_, did Lex _know_ they were in public? Because the way that those slender,  
smooth fingers were running up and down along Clark's arm bespoke of intimacy that  
just wasn't afforded by sitting on a _stage_.

  
Clark focused. "And molest me."

  
Lex laughed and eyed Clark. "One time around the fair first, Clark."

  
Clark moaned. "Six _months_, Lex. Come _on_. I wasn't even allowed to _hang out_  
with you!" Clark was sure he was the only person in the _world_ whose boyfriend told  
him he loved him and then put him on _probation_ and gave him clear instructions to stay  
the hell away all in the same twenty minutes.

  
Most of Smallville had taken to believing that the inevitable falling out between Clark  
Kent and Lex Luthor had finally occurred. Some of them consoled him, saying that Lex  
was bad news anyway, and that Clark deserved better friends. Clark usually just grit his  
teeth, nodded, and distracted himself with images of Lex down on his knees between  
Clark's legs, or of Lex's mouth..._everywhere_. For six months, the internet had been  
Clark's _best friend_.

  
Lex raised his eyebrows. "You had to be sure."

  
"And I am," Clark retorted.

  
If Clark was any more sure, his pants were going to be ruined, and wouldn't _that_ be fun  
to explain to his mother? Gosh, Mom, you see, it was an accident. Lex and I were just  
sitting on that platform, at the Harvest Fair? (Yes, Dad, in front of everyone, breathe,  
you'll kill yourself that way.) And he was rubbing his _thigh_ along mine and his  
_hands_ were just - Mom? Mom?

  
"After the fair," Lex said easily. Because he was a sick, sadistic man, Clark knew.

  
Clark pouted. Lex smiled. The difference between eighteen and twenty-three seemed  
enormous then, the distance between total inability to function when turned on, and  
gleeful torment of those who were having trouble walking.

  
"We have all the time in the world, Clark," Lex said softly.

  
Clark hesitated at it and smiled slowly. Lex was right.

  
In the months and years thereafter, when Lex asked what had gone through his head that  
night before he'd called and gone to the castle, or during those six months in between,  
Clark always dismissed the questions with the same smile, same words. "It was all just  
psychobabble, Lex. In the end, everything came together just the way it should."

  
That day, the sky was a brilliant shade of red, and blue was seeping into the edges as  
night crawled in. Farmhouses dotted the skyline and the windmill and Baker's field were  
all visible. The Luthor castle's turrets drew made dramatic lines against the sunset and  
Clark saw it all with a graceless appreciation for beauty in its rawest form. He didn't  
have Lex's words or eloquence, and he lacked Chloe's energy. He didn't "do" normal,  
and he couldn't be artful. But he could see it, recognize it, touch and taste and _feel_ it  
like sweetness on his tongue or Lex on his mouth.

  
The October sky was perfect in a perfectly flawed way.

  
And hand in hand, about to make the biggest and best mistake of their lives, so were they.

  
Clark had no doubt about it.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to:
> 
> ...All the wonderful people who read this story and provided words of kindness.
> 
> ...My extremely brave beta readers, who tore through this story with great speed and thoroughness, making it comply with standards of readability before I exposed it to the SSA: Madam D (who, honest to God, scared the crap out of me with how quickly she edited), Snails Pace (who bravely edited even without dashes or apostrophes), and Caro (who did an incredible last-minute beta out of love).
> 
> ...And finally, Dr. Peck, who taught me not to overanalyze and that Hatfield and Berscheid were probably full of crap.
> 
> Love - Pru
> 
> (1/16/2003 - 3/15/2003)


End file.
